The Flâneur
by smattering-of-words
Summary: Pip/Kyle, Pip's POV. Pip has spent most of his life detatched from others, yet when an assignment pairs him up with the boy he has obsessed over for years he's about to learn there's more to life than cigarettes, teasing Frenchies and Stephen Fry Novels.
1. Prologue

**Author notes:** Hi. :] I'm kind of new to this. Well, not writing, but to the whole fandom side of things. Never submitted to here before, and well, I'm very nervous! Though I hate to sound the review whore, any comments regarding this small submission are something I am incredibly grateful for; whether they are criticism that kicks my soft and inexperienced ass or just mushy praise that fills my stomach with warm cotton I will be happy.

Anyway, yup, I'd usually warn that bits of British faggotry are to most likely seep into this fic [read: TONS] yet considering I'm writing from the POV of a homosexual British kid already that warning is pretty darn redundant. Character ages here are in the 14/15 area [9th grade]. I'm not the most reliable source when it comes to US education, though I feel that I've researched enough to keep things making sense. Any problems you spot regarding Colorado State schooling **please** tell me, so I can know in the future about avoiding them.

Also, I am quite the slow writer. Expect updates to be sparse.

* * *

**_Flâneur: _**_(n.)_ One who strolls about aimlessly; a lounger; a loafer.

_"... A __flâneur_ thus played a double role in city life and in theory, that is, while remaining a detached observer."  
**Charles Baudelaire**

_"There is no English equivalent for the French word flâneur. Cassell's dictionary defines flâneur as a stroller, saunterer, drifter but none of these terms seems quite accurate. There is no English equivalent for the term, just as there is no Anglo-Saxon counterpart of that essentially Gallic individual, **the deliberately aimless pedestrian, unencumbered by any obligation or sense of urgency**, who, being French and therefore frugal, wastes nothing, including his time which he spends with the leisurely discrimination of a gourmet, savoring the multiple flavors of his city."  
**Cornelia Otis Skinner**_

* * *

**Prologue**

My entire life, more than anything, I've wanted to be _liked_.

Not liked in the context of being good friends with everybody, or liked in the context of being able to hang out with anybody I feel like; not 'popular' – there's an episode of Weekenders which best explains what I'm trying to say here. One of the lead characters, Tino, hands out surveys to the entire school asking whether they like him or not, and two or three students mark 'no' and he completely freaks out and spends his entire weekend working at getting them to change their answer. That is pretty much me to the last fibre and molecule of my very being; however I'm certainly not going to hand out questionnaires regarding my general likeability to an entire school full of kids, however, as that would be an act of social suicide. For I am not liked by many; hell, not even 'liked' in the sense of 'Hello, I have no idea who this person is but I'll mark _Yes_ simply because I'm in a good mood and he doesn't look too harmful' liked.

I not wary to hazard a guess at it all coming down to the fact that I'm the only honest-to-God British kid in the entire Park County – that, and sharing multiple classes with Eric Cartman: Evil Incarnate; Wickedness Personified; Fat Ass.

Now, there is of course the whole 'we guys rip on each other all the time cool dude' philosophy that Eric (and pretty much everybody else to a certain extent) swears so strongly by (You were burgled? He'd insult your lack of intelligence regarding home security and call you a faggot. You were beaten up? You shouldn't be such a wimp. Or faggot. What about your religious beliefs? If Mel Gibson doesn't positively fit in somehow, you'll forever burn in the damned flames of Hell as A Slave of Sodom), but for some reason it's escaladed when I'm involved; I'm British, therefore any reference to England/Britain/Europe, _ever_, will warrant him calling my nationality to attention then insulting it. I'm also absolutely hopeless at athletics, so he's eager to pounce on that aspect of me as well, regarding me as a 'wuss', or a 'fucking pansy'. The only other boy in our grade who I can think of who gets it as bad as I do is Kyle and, and perhaps it's how he genuinely doesn't care how somebody like Eric thinks of him, or perhaps its how, most of the time, he is able to shake off the majority of Eric's insults off like water off a duck's back but whatever the hell it is, I'm utterly infatuated with it – with _him_ and every buggery-fucked aspect of what he represents, stands for and _is_ – and it drives me insane. Up the wall. Mad as a bloody fucking hatter for jewboy.

I don't know when it started. For most people there's that defining moment, the moment a person realises their feelings for another person and from there God knows what. However, in my case it's as if one morning I simply rolled, breathing hard and sweating bullets, out of bed with the ideology that hey, _maybe I have a boner for somebody_ and God forbid it should spring up for somebody who I can easily talk to. _No_, it had to spring up around Kyle Broflovski, the one boy I've been obsessed with ever since that dreaded day in gym class when I almost brained him with a dodgeball. By the Gods it just had to be Kyle Broflovski who, even for a freshman, is pretty cool and popular; who has everything I want and _is_ everything I yearn for yet also know I'll never have.

As lucky as we were to have both our own elementary _and_ middle school in South Park that changed when we began Park County High out in Middle Park, a large campus consisting of many small, disgustingly modern buildings situated almost an hour from our quaint town. Unfortunately, all of the guys decided that banding together would be the smartest thing, so it's an unspoken rule that everybody who lives in South Park sit together in lunch and in classes when given the chance. If not we'd get eaten alive, according to Kenny. So, as close as I am to Kyle most of the time, there's always the fact that another of our cosy little group is present alongside us and higher up on the ladder of popularity than I am. Fuck, even _Butters_ is way cooler than I am, and that's bad.

OK, that's kind of a low blow, but still. He _is_.

It's not that Kyle would much rather choose to talk to somebody else over me, oh no, it's my own stupid tendency to become overly friendly around everybody else, which in turn only sets the more brutish bullies upon me, thus making it impossible for him to get any sort of word in. Kyle is the only person I can think of who, when the chance of ridiculing the resident Brit presents itself, _doesn't_ immediately jump on it to earn cool points amongst his peers. That is what gets me, what completely confuses me about him, how he can cope with this hell hole without having to depend on giving into peer pressure and popularity seeking. I tell myself, have instilled it into my brain like a mantra, that I am above doing such a thing too, yet when I'm confronted with somebody looking to get a cheap laugh from another's [usually mine] misfortune, I simply sugar-coat myself and act nice to them in the desperate attempt that they'd _like_ me, instead of being, and sticking up for, myself.

Sure, there are one or two others from South Park who don't pick on me, but they just don't seem to be under the pressure of doing so in the first place.

Wendy is, first and foremost, good looking, smart, funny and an overall great person. Yet it's just against her human nature to say a bad thing about anybody, unless that somebody just so happens to be Eric Cartman. Everybody's got a bad thing to say about _him_. It's not human nature if you don't. But, as much as I like and respect her, I just can't find myself to feel anything except those things for her simply because she falls into the other extreme. The other person is Tweek. But that's a given, considering he's too worried over himself and his blood/caffeine level, and karma causing someone to kill him because he made fun of somebody, and the latest clothing-related conspiracy, and government plants, and— wow, Tweek worries too much.

Like I'm saying; as nice as they can be, knowing _why _just lessens the gratification I should feel when Wendy smiles at me when we pass in the corridor, or when Tweek squeaks a rushed "thanks" when I help him with math problems. Kyle doesn't need any help whatsoever from me, nor does he try and be nice to me because of some early-drilled mantra that's turned him into a softie. No, he can choose to act just like how his friends act towards me, yet he stands up for me instead. He'd go so far as to risk his popularity in standing up for the 'Frog' because he doesn't need to live off of other people's opinions of him.

I guess he does it because he, personally, is against such treatment of people such as my self, and he's prepared to risk—

Oh, God, I'm making myself out to be the victim in all of this. And only God knows why this topic, of all topics, has decided to burrow itself into my conscience so early on a Monday morning. Only God knows why I think so vividly at all when I wake up, as if the thought had been stewed throughout the night for me to start on as soon as I can. It happens frequently. Sometimes I would wake up and be murmuring song lyrics as my eyes adjusted to the morning light, or be giggling into a pillow over a daft idea that simply popped into my mind as my eyes snapped open.

But this thought, of all thoughts, to intrigue me now on a Monday morning? Of all the days and all the boys I could possibly think of, considering they intertwine and create what is my least favourite lesson: Physical Education, I am to think of them now? Perhaps my mental self _does_ conspire against me. I've always tried to tell The Mole this when we bump into each other around the back of the Gym to smoke away our lunch hour, and he tells me I'm just paranoid. Perhaps I am.

In the process of picking what shirt to wear, I reach out to my bedside table beyond the alarm clock, where my fingers wrap around my phone. In the process of turning it on (hello, I have a new message, which I ignore. Call me insane, but I don't feel like filling up my bill with several failed attempts of downloading a trendy new ringtone), I fish out the first shirt that feels remotely comfortable and pull it on.

I always feel nervous phoning Christophé, simply because I don't know whether he's at home or spending an extended weekend at his father's place. I have a fear of his mother who is, admittedly, rather terrifying. Plus, he's kind of cranky on mornings when I do phone him and he's there to answer. Why he's cranky I'll never know, I guess he's not a morning person. But really, who _is_ such a thing? It's all a case of how much of a cry-baby you are, when you think about it.

After four rings a growled '_'ello_?' answers my call. Success!

"Good morning, Christophé. Do you feel like skipping first class?"

"… _Peep_?" Aww, bless, his accent is currently making its last stand against the godawful drawl of the locals. And losing. Please say I'll never succumb to such a fate.

"Why, gosh, indeed it is. Fancy that. _Are_ you skipping then, or what?"

"_God_," he moans, for some reason. I don't understand him. He _always_ skips class, regardless of me tagging along or not as company. Why he has to be a complete knob really confuses me. There are a few seconds of noisy scratching and a yawn, before he mumbles "What do we 'ave?"

"P.E." I chirp, imagining his grimace at my unashamedly British labelling of the class, he hates it when I do that. It's amusing to annoy him so early; I have to do it more often. He mumbles a "sure", before hanging up. I make sure my shirt is not too creased before making my way downstairs for breakfast.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author Notes:** Nothing special here. :B Thanks to those who checked this out! Especially those who reviewed afterwards! You guys _rooock_. I hope to keep things entertaining in the very least; I'm basically still in the midst of setting up things in this chapter so don't expect anything too interesting in terms of plot-progression until my next update. Just working more character in right now. Don't let that put you off though! This chapter is so, as some of my more rummy fellows say, "totally fucking jokes lol".

Right now I'm stuck in a shitton of exams, so don't expect any kind of update until... June, maybe? Late June? Yeah, I'll say about then. If I haven't updated by July you have free rights to kick my ass, considering that's when my classes finish and I'll have time to do things.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Oh, the hierarchy of the morning school bus. What a heinous one it truly is. As wrong as some stereotypes regarding school life can possibly be, the age-old one of the bus to school every morning is one that is most definitely _not_ inaccurate, and boy do I hate it. Children, as 'fashionable' and 'likeable' as they can potentially be, are dashed promises of the playground populous if their seat is in close proximity to that of the driver. The further you are from the front, the more people there are that are vulnerable to you, and when you're young and stupid that's pretty much all you've got going for you in terms of dominance. That is how it goes. To sit at the front is to be left open to rumour and counter-rumour, to snide gestures and inconspicuous pokes to the head, to humiliating acts of juvenile aggression and peer-pressure orientated attacks. Every second in your seat is A Waiting Game, and you just so happen to be that big fat buzzer waiting to be pressed on.

Just once I'd like to have a seat at the back of the bus. I feel I wouldn't tease and taunt others in front of me (probably); I'd just bask in the feeling of enjoying a calm ride to school. Only one bus operates throughout the southern area of Park County for Freshmen, and South Park is one of the last towns it passes through. By the time Christophé and I are intended to get on the bus, it's already half full (though, on a good day, I sometimes suggest that the bus is still half empty, to annoyed grunting). The bus holds forty students, so we're looking at twenty potential assholes every morning all looking to distract themselves from the looming doom of school, and very few distractions are as fun as picking on the two 'frogs'. How we're so notoriously known throughout our grade, nay, an entire school, so early on in the year is completely beyond me.

That's why I chose not to take the bus this morning.

My sister looks after me. She's not the worst, but I sometimes feel as if I've arrived to something that has long reached its peak and is now in freefall, like English football. Mornings are spent alone, she already having left for work; evenings are silently spent in my own little bubble as I hear her shuffle from room to room, as if lost. Occasionally she would ask me how my day went, or if I needed anything. Sometimes she would disappear from my world completely for several days, overwhelmed by a depression that forces her to take refuge with friends.

It is honestly terrifying, to return home and not hear her car roll across the drive gravel throughout the afternoon, as I never know where she goes. I fear one day that everything will all become too much for her to handle, and she vanishes forever. I've already lost everything else; to lose my sister would be… I don't know. I don't want to think about what I would do. I don't want to become her, to suffer the loss of that which I depend on.

_I was only six when I lost my parents: the age of basic understanding, where I know of the concept of death yet not of its deeper meaning. My sister had just graduated from __Yorkshire University with a degree in Law, and shortly after, the family decided to move out to a small town in the mountains of the United States so as to give her more job opportunities. Just three months after moving, just as we had settled into our little house in the snowy little town of South Park, was when it happened. Car accident. We had very little family, and none at all in the country, so at first my sister had no idea what to do. She had just turned 23. I had just enrolled in the 1__st__ Grade of South Park Elementary. We had just lost our mother and father to a hectic interstate running throughout Denver._

"_Phillip," she starts, having just found out and left her office to check up on me. We were in the playground__ as it was recess, and I had snuck off to a small crook to avoid the other children. "Are you OK? I'm just d-dropping by._

"_Mother and father, they, there was an accident. They were driving, and another car crashed into them, and they were very badly hurt. So bad, so bad that they had to go to heaven. Remember in Sunday School, when the priest talked of heaven, a place where people go when they die?" I nod__ded. "Well, mother and father are there right now. Do you remember what else the priest said? That when people go to heaven they have to stay there forever? I-I'm sorry, Pip, but they're gone. They're in heaven. You won't see them for, for a long time-"_

_It was around this time that the old lady who used to watch over us at recess, whose name I can'__t remember, came storming over, telling her to "fuck off". The lady grabbed my arm and roughly pulled me away, shouting something about the stupidity of children in the world today and how "they'll all be abducted, the little bastards"._

_I wasn't the most talkative person in the class when I first started. The other children all made fun of my accent. I guess it was more of a case of being so confused by my mannerisms and such at first, yet after a couple weeks some started remarking on how I looked like a girl, and on the way I dressed. Eventually my parents were called in for a discussion with the school counsellor, Mr. Mackey, and my alienation was discussed. My parents were _this_ close to pulling me out of the midst of these ignorant rednecks in South Park and moving me into a school closer to the state capital with the hope I'd enjoy life more there, but they never. They never explained why, they just never._

_If they would have done, maybe they wouldn't have died._

_Things continued the way they had done, and eventually I was brought to Mr. Mackey myself._

"_M'kay, hello there Phillip. My name is Mr. Mackey and I'm here to help you," he began, offering me the only seat in front of his desk.__ It was much larger than the ones we sat on in class, and the size of it intimidated me. It took me a few seconds to climb the thing and when I'd adjusted myself properly, legs dangling, Mr. Mackey continued. "Now, how are you coping with moving to a new place?"_

_To me back then, being spoken__ to by this freakishly featured person, talking was pretty much an impossible task. He'd make fun of my accent too, and my appearance and, and my hair and he's going to spit on me if he knew what I was so whatever happens I'm not going to acknowledge him _God I just want to leave this awful place_-_

"_Phillip," he says sternly, making sure to grab my attention. "I understand if you're scared, M'kay? I bet the other children pick on you, right? They make fun of how you talk? You can answer me, M'kay?"_

"_Yes," I whisper after some time, shocked at how he knew. He understood me? This was__- this was the last thing I expected from somebody from this town._

"_So they make fun of how __you speak, is this why you don't talk to anybody?" I nod sharply, not looking at him. I swing my legs under the chair, the tips of my shoes dragging across the dirty carpet below. My palms are pressed against the seat of my chair, my fingers clenching the edge so hard my arms tremble. "Are you ashamed of your voice, Philip?"_

"_The other boys, they call me P__-Pip," I say, voice still barely audible. The strange man is forced to lean right over his desk so he can hear me. "But I don't like that name. I tell them to stop calling me it but they don't listen to me. I don't like it when they call me Pip."_

"_Why not, M'kay?"_

"_My name is _Philip_," I reply simply, now turning my head to look at him. "I hate it here."_

_I feel my eyes tear up and__ I squeeze them shut, pressing the heels of my hands into them. _It is not proper to cry in front of others_, I try to tell myself, yet that only makes everything worse and I make to wipe the snot from my face yet simply stuff my fingers into my mouth and bite on them. A tissue is handed to me, and I look up to see Mr. Mackey smiling. I double it over and start cleaning myself up, however I keep my hands to my face once he begins talking again._

"_M'kay. If you spoke to the other children more often then you might find __out they like you after all, Phillip. They might only make fun of you because you _let_ them make fun of you, M'kay?"_

_I settle into my chair, rubbing my eyes. _It isn't proper to cry in front of somebody_. I say it over in my mind, and feel myself settling. Although now only my nose is running I still keep my hands close to my face. "R-really?"_

"_If you ignore the other children, they may feel you're ashamed of what you are. You should be proud of what you are, Phillip, and get to know the other children__, M'kay?"_

"_But they h-hate me__, they _hate_ me…"_

"_I bet that if you talked to them, M'kay, they'd start being nice to you. If you tried to be their friends they'd begin to like you," he offers, now relaxing in his chair. My voice seems to have found a normal volume by now. He smiles. "Phillip, there are no strangers in the world; only friends waiting for you to _talk_ to them, M'kay?"_

_I smile back; a watery, withering smile, but a smile none-the-less. He says I can leave and I __slide from my chair to return to class, content that what he said was right. If only it were true, though. If only the world _did_ run on clever little sayings, life would be much simpler. If only I had opened myself up to everybody and had made friends, I'd be happy then. If only my parents had taken me away, or had stayed in England, I'd feel at home there. But they weren't to happen, and what _would_ happen was to throw my already abused life into further turmoil._

_It was__ later on that very morning, the same morning Mr. Mackey spoke to me for the first time, in which my parents died._

And here I am now, currently outside the house of The Mole. After several minutes the first specks of morning snow begin falling, and one manages to cling to the tip of my nose. I'm in the midst of (unsuccessfully) blowing it off when Christophé emerges from behind his front door, still wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama pants.

"I'm going to be a minute, so 'old your 'orses."

"Sure," I deadpan, annoyed. What is he _doing_ up there? The fleck of snow by now has melted and now my nose and top lip is wet from the hot air of my mouth. Christophé could at least let me stand inside, instead of leaving me out here like a lemon getting frostbite in my fingers and toes. I should invest in some new gloves, considering my old ones are worn and useless now. A second layer of socks is in order, too.

I cup my hands around my mouth and begin blowing the same hot air as before onto them. The bus would have come by now, but as I decided earlier we weren't getting the blasted thing. That would be too much of a hassle, especially considering it was a Monday morning. People were too easily irritated on returning to their prison after a weekend of freedom, and people like us were the best outlets of steam.

_Fuck this_, I think, whilst hammering against the front door. This only hurts my hand though, and nobody answers. Mole is still most likely getting ready and, judging from the empty parking spot in the driveway, his mother left for work early.

I make my way through the gate at the side of the house to the back yard, where Mole sometimes takes me if he wants to smoke. If Christophé's mother found out that his little habit is as ironically healthy as it ever was, she'd fucking flay him. He's already had to go to some kind of centre once for his dependency on cigarettes, yet once he left he simply took up the habit again. He only does it out here though as the neighbours across the street, although only thinking of his best interests, are "fucking pieces of sheet who gossip too much".

There's a small stone bench where we sit, and all around our feet are small, round pebbles. I think his mother _buys_ them. How else could she own so many little things that are perfect for chucking at his bedroom window?

The first one hits home (quite literally) with a loud crack. I make sure I don't throw the thing too hard, however, in case the glass breaks. There's no reaction for nearly 30 seconds until, as I'm scanning the ground for another little stone, the raspy voice of my favourite little Frenchy is telling me I'm a cunt, or something. I look up and his head is poking out of his mother's bedroom window.

"Christophé, I'm bloody freezing out here! Please let me in!"

"You British are genetically tuned to cold weather, ze _dreezle_ and ze fog, so wait out there." With that, he withdraws back into the house.

"Grr! Christophé, if you don't let me in there I'll tell your mother you smoke!" I threaten, palming the small pebble. After a few seconds, his shaggy brown mane emerges from the same window again.

"You wouldn't _dare_…"

"Oh, wouldn't I? Well, you'll just have to find out then, wouldn't you? You better hide that stash of yours as I believe your punishment would be ten times worse if she finds it!"

He huffs, before once again disappearing from sight, this time slamming the window behind him and violently pulling the curtains over. Satisfied, I toss my weapon back into the pit dug into the grass from whence it came. After some forceful negotiations with the back door, Christophé's managed to wrench the thing open and I'm shortly basking in the warmth of his kitchen. "Wait zere," he orders.

"Right-o, Christophé. Do take your time," I say, digging through his refrigerator. "Do you have any chocolate?"

"Chocolate. In ze morning."

"Yes, it really is quite delicious!"

"… you're fucking nutty, Pip, and no, we don't eat chocolate. There are cookies in ze cupboards, 'owever."

"Splendid." I begin rooting through the plethora of cupboards that are in this ridiculous kitchen, as Christophé warns me not to eat them all at once. After a few seconds I strike gold, and start on a breakfast of biscuit-y goodness.

*********

Many people consider mine & Mole's relationship to be confusing, and I can see where they are coming from. Christophé is a handsome and talented person, where-as I am just Phillip Pirrup: South Park's resident Brit; easily intimidated, nerdy and dorky, as athletic as a corpse and about as alluring as one, to boot: a complete pussy. We're the Odd Couple. One of us is English and the other is French. It should be in our genes to _hate_ each other, actually, considering they've had about 800 years to get used to our two countries' hatred of each other. I'm a weak pansy who can't stick up for himself and he's, well, the fucking _Mole_. Anybody who isn't scared of him isn't in the know regarding who he actually is. Yet we're practically best fucking friends.

I like to think that our friendship started over the corroding tobacco that we both found we enjoyed inhaling together back in Junior High. We had nothing better to do, and the majority of the kids in our grade didn't interest us, so we both just started smoking _together_ as smoking alone was much more boring and expensive. Usually, talking to new people is hard for me to do, but as we broke the proverbial ice and started talking to each other, we found we shared some general interests. Plus, I enjoyed our baiting of each other's nationality. His cold manner towards the other students, all '_Sheetheads_', made me laugh, too, and I guess he needed somebody to share this ranting and raving with. Nobody else would dare talk to him at lunch when we'd all cram round the back of the building, not even those he helped during the American & Canadian war a few years back.

It wasn't until Stan Marsh, someone I was a little intimidated by, managed to get me alone and warn me that Christophé was not who I seemingly thought he was. To say I was shocked would be an understatement, one of the biggest of the century, but I still couldn't just call off my friendship because of what Christophé had experienced so far in his life.

And so the next day Stan and Kyle were to get the surprise of their lives when Mole and I decided, like routine, to go out back and smoke only a couple minutes into lunch.

And since then, I've felt a very, albeit warped, close friendship with the brunette now muttering to himself as we walk through the streets of South Park.

"I told you not to eat all of those fucking cookies, Pip!" He yells, glaring at me. I can't help but laugh, The Mole getting all worked up over a packet of cookies? _Hilarious._ "We don't go shopping until Wednesday, you stupid fuck!"

"Jesus, Christophé, if it's that bad you can have a packet of mine. We have a dozen packets of those in my house-"

"You better, because if muzzer finds out I'm letting you pig out in her kitchen she'd flip 'er lid. Speaking of that, let us stop by _'appy Burger_ 'coz I am fucking starving."

"Right-o. Hopefully they haven't moved onto their "Regular Menu" yet-"

"Quit it."

"Hmm?"

"You make that joke every time we do zis, knock it off."

I sigh, realising that Christophé is most definitely not in a good mood. Maybe it was me threatening to tell his mother about his little habit.

I shiver from the biting cold and wrap my coat around myself tighter. South Park in February is a very car-preferable habitat, but we both have to rely on foot to get to our destination. Happy Burger. Hah, that place is as run-down and depressing as it tries not to sound, and is definite proof that the towns around here need to start attracting more glamorous fast food places. I heard there was a KFC a few miles away towards Denver, but I've never seen it. The only positive about Happy Burger is that it's on our route to school, and it's pretty cheap.

"Let me ask you somezing, Pip," he suddenly asks, his eyes watching me. I suddenly feel very suspicious of his curiosity. Usually we keep to ourselves, and my suspicion grows as we walk into Happy Burger, Mole still not actually _asking me somezing_ and I'm that distracted that I place the wrong order at the till. "Give me a chicken sandwich, some fries and a coke," he says as I meekly inspect my own double cheeseburger.

"What _is_ it, Christophé?"

"Here," he offers me his sandwich, the same one I usually order, and nods towards one of the only private booths in the place. "This is kind of private, I think. Give me zat cheeseburger, ah, you mightn't want random strangers to hear."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Chris-"

"You want to ditch first period for a reason," he suddenly says, taking me by surprise. "And your reasons, yes I can read zem clearly, are fucking retarded. You should stop being such a God-damned pussy."

Oh, great.

"You know, I'd make the same joke about your country, about how you're all a bunch of snail-eating pussies and you ditch shit all of the time and surrender and pussy out, but just like _your_ ridiculous accusations, they are getting just about as stale as… as… God knows what, but the point is you're beginning to sound like a broken record. Can I not enjoy my breakfast and talk about something other than the very topic I obviously do not feel like discussing right now? Can we focus on something other than the same person who is responsible for me missing most of my Physical Education classes? It seems that is all we ever bloody _do_ talk about now!"

"My zincearest apologies," Christophè says, obviously amused. I bite into my sandwich a little harder than necessary and begin chewing loudly as he settles into his own corner of the booth and continues watching over me. "You seem worked up."

"Stop it."

"Look, I am aware zat it is none of my business, but you can't keep ditching class because of anozer boy. You alzo cannot keep such a feeling from him. Tell 'im 'ow you feel." He picks up a few chips and brings them to his mouth, all the while watching me, and I turn to him completely to tell him to drop it. I don't get the chance to, though, as recently fried potato sticks are thrown in my direction. "And once you'ze zun that, hang out wizzim and get out of my fucking 'air you Imperialistic faggot," he finishes, picking up his coke to take some form of demented victory sip. I fume, reaching out to hit him, yet realise that several other diners are watching us, including a police officer who is currently looking over two young teenagers having a small foodfight in a restaurant when they should be on their way to school right now.

Oh boy. Oh _fuck_.

Mole's spotted him too, and we stare at each other as he approaches. _Busted_.

A couple minutes later we're both being carted off to Park County high without a return ticket and almost certainly a detention. As we're just passing the town boundry of South Park I scoot closer to Christophé and engage him in my answer to his suggestion.

"And how exactly do I go about _'telling 'im 'ow I feel'_, Chris?" I murmer. "Well? Cripes, I hope the fabled Note In The Locker is still considered a fashionable pander of love; I hope that he, as a member of the 'Eric Cartman finds me worthy of his attention' club, which, believe me, is not as nice as it sounds, doesn't jump to the conclusion that what he's just come across isn't some poorly plotted trap. Hold on. How about I simply ambush him in a random bathroom stall and force my gushing admiration onto him? Hey, that's a good idea, methinks, because if he doesn't take my admission well I can simply force something _else_ onto him instead—"

"Or _into_ 'im." The Mole interjects. This almost halts my flow, as laughter threatens to disrupt my speech.

"Should he not take my voiced admission then it is the admission of flesh that must be undertaken. It's a shame he is to suffer, but all's fair in love and war and escaping those grease-encrusted locks of yours, am I right? You really should wash them, yet I assume your genes forbid such a thing, _non_?" I shrink away from any impending attack as he fully grasps my insult.

"You British piece of sheet, you, you. Are. So. _Flaming_," he curses, hammering my left side with blows as I try and defend myself. A stern yell from our arresting officer is enough to subside him, luckily. He glares at me as I start giggling. "Asshole."

*********

I don't understand our school's disciplinary system; three strikes in a week and your parent or guardian is informed. To earn a 'strike' is to simply earn a detention: to earn three is to be sent home for the rest of the day. I think its bullshit. And you know what you must do with bullshit philosophies: you _exploit_ them. Pretty much everybody in the school who isn't a prissy teacher's pet plays the game of trying to earn as many strikes as possible without having their parents' brought in to be told how much of a little shit their child is exactly. I know, I know, you have to serve two detentions every week but really, what with so many parents working all day until 5PM there's no such case of "Where have you _been_, young man!? School finished an hour ago!" as the kid will still be home an hour or so before ma and pa are. And nobody cares about wasting two hours of free time as sacrificing them makes you look nonchalant and badass.

Unfortunately for us, we arrive just as first period is starting. Because we weren't technically _late_ we aren't given detention, however, which is good.

"_So_," Mole says as we shuffle to our lockers. "You didn't bring a kit, did you?"

"I didn't think you'd get us arrested, actually, so _no_."

"You are so cranky in ze morning Pip, you should sleep more."

I splutter incoherently as he swings open his own locker and eases his bag into the cramped space. "Me? _Cranky_!? If it wasn't for your idiocy we would still be outside! And I'm not the one who cries like a little girl when someone phones them every morning!"

"I'm sorry?"

"_Oh, Gohz, what zou you wahnz Peep so_-argh! Get off me!"

Headlocks _suck_.

"Say uncle, you British turd!"

"Hey, what are you two doing out of class?" a hall monitor called out as we fought. He rushed to break us up, but had more than he bargained for with The Mole, who, in the thrill of an early morning tussle, was now throttling the poor senior while I silently ran off to Gym, hoping that I wasn't spotted by either of them.

_Jesus_, Mole can genuinely be a terrifying person when he starts throwing himself about. Most likely he'll get sent up to the principal's office now, even though back there he was simply having a touch of fun before Math class… a small warm-up of the body to prepare the mind, if you will. That's the scary thing; it was only a touch of fun.

Fuck, I should always remember to bring my gym kit regardless of whether I actually do the class or not. At least now I won't have to get changed amongst the rest of the brutes that inhabit those Godforsaken changing rooms, or be forced to share their wet space of The Baths and The Showers afterwards.

Oh good Lordy Lord of the Holy spirit of Christ does the thought of those terrible things make me feel sick as a dog, with the endless taunting and laughing and general masculinity of it all; from the steamed up windows to the slippery tiles, every last square inch of it all just makes my stomach churn. And let me not even begin on having to share such a space with that beautiful redhead, shrouded in mist and steam and the complete unknowing of my infatuation with him. It's like a large scab that just screams, "Pick me, scratch me, pull me, peel me!" that I can't help but glance at him and observe his every mannerism; the way his shoulder blades dance under the silky skin across his back as he scrubs away the worked up sweat of the lesson, or the slender waist peeking over shorts that aren't yet snugly fitting him, or how his face flushes from the heat of the steam that envelops him; not entirely hidden, a _teasing_ of my imagination. It makes me glad my own shorts are long and loose. The setting is a room full of naked guys yet, like the scab that still needs to be healed over, I can't help but give the thing I should never give attention to a full working over. It's so maddening! Why does he hold such a strong grasp over me?

I'm so lost in my own thoughts that, at first, I don't notice that I'm already outside the gym building and now pacing in front of the door restlessly. It takes a small eruption of noise from inside to bring me back to Earth, and I take that as proof that class is already in full swing, and I'm officially 'late'. Yay!

I stroll into the auditorium and immediately make for the bleachers. As much as Coach hates slackers and wimps, he more intently hates it when said slackers and wimps proceed to bring down everything else around them. To him I'm a lost cause, so as he spots me sitting down his face hardens up momentarily, before he turns his attention back to those nearest to him and readily chews them out for talking. I'm surprised to see no others sitting with me; on occasion Kenny McCormick is late himself, or without kit, and is forced to sit with me and several of the kids in class are sometimes too 'rowdy' to be allowed to take part and are told to cool down.

Basketball…

It's the only sport of the big three I have an inkling of understanding of, but whether that's because it seems to be the only one which isn't a big rip off of one of the world's big sports (I'm looking at you, Baseball and _American-fucking-Football_) or simply of the fact that Kyle is so skilled at it I don't know, but God he's talented. Considering he's a good few inches shorter than most of the other players, you can't help but wonder about how he actually manages to keep up at times, but he does.

Although that might just be my biased rotten self.

*****

The rest of the morning is uneventful, save for a freshman who's name I can't recall almost breaking his neck in a fall. After rushing lunch I'm out back to find Christophé already waiting for me, already a small smirk spreading across his face as I arrive to our little haunt out behind the Gym building. Very few people besides the loners and weirdoes, the Goths (or emos, or what-fucking-ever) and the other smokers come out here and considering how plain the majority of the students in this place are, we're a small crowd.

"Greetings, _Pierre_, do you have a smoke?"

"Sure do, 'umphrey. What 'appened to you this morning?"

"Oh, I believe you had everything under control. I never come between a Frenchie and his… um… spoils of war…"

"For zat, you are not getting any burn off me now."

"Quit teasing, Christophe, and hand it over. Ah, _bonjour_ my little friend. Now, did anything happen after I left or what?" I checked the cigarette and couldn't recognise the brand name; not surprising, I actually haven't bought anything before in my life and the only brand dear Sister ever buys is Camel and Mole just, he has strange tastes to say the least. "Got a light?"

"You are flaming enough, Pip, I'm sure you don't need me in zat department-"

"Stuff it up your self-righteous ass, Frenchie. I'll go bum a light from somebody _else_."

"Good luck with zat," he called as I slid beside the creepy pyromaniac kid from the grade above. He's _sure_ to have at least a blow torch hidden somewhere in that ridiculous pouch he calls a backpack. "Hello there, fellow goonite of the behind-Gym, do you by any chance have something to help me ignite this cigarette with? My friend over there is refusing to let me use his lighter."

"You are such a manipulative bastard," Mole scolds as I return, early grave filling my lungs and refreshing every strained nerve in my body. I blow smoke into his face as he flips me off, and we settle against our usual spot on the wall.

"I managed to get away before anybody else came across us," he says finally, lighting up himself. "But I'm pretty sure that shit head will report me soon enough."

"… will?"

"I knocked 'im out."

"Haah, Jesus Christ, you need to remember that everybody else in this school is not a killer mercenary, Chris. You'll end up seriously hurting somebody sooner or later."

"So! What's _this_ then?"

We turn left to find the testosterone charged figure of Coach Kinsley looming over us, his large teeth bare between lips stretched into an expression that can only be described as looking manically triumphant. His hands are on his hips as he looks from me to Mole, and back again, his eyes growing gradually larger as the sight registers.

"You're smoking on the school grounds! I knew you Euro-trash were up to no good!"

Wait, _Euro-trash_?

Before we know what the hell is happening, rough fingers clasp our shirt collars as Coach prepares to bring back his catch of the Lunch Hour, continually grumbling about the future generations of those who aren't 'True Americans' and the disgust of our general existence.

"Yeah, we save their asses in the wars yet the children they raise don't know squat about respect-" I feel something of a temper at this remark. "-should just go home."

"We were only smoking-"

"Don't give me that, Frenchie, I've got it on good authority that you assaulted a hall moniter this morning," he announces, forcing us into the principal's office. Inside we see the ruffled-looking poor soul from this morning, who perks up at our arrival. "Is this the kid?"

"Yeah, Coach, that's the one I ran into this morning."

This isn't the first time I've wound up in this office, and sure enough, I recognise the look on Principal Harris' face to be one of a disappointed dryness directly at my presence.

"Philip, what are _you_ doing here?"

"Caught him smoking, sir," Coach says.

"Smoking? Again?"

"But in this economic crisis I feel I must support the profits of my favourite-ow!" Kinsley quickly retracts the hand that cuffed me across the back of my neck as Mole snorts. Harris rolls his eyes.

"You were also escorted to school by a patrol car, were you not? You too, Christopher?"

I feel Mole stiffen very slightly beside me at the mispronunciation of his name. The tone in Principal Harris's voice is more bored than anything, as if I'm just the leftovers of his evening meal and his wife is asking if it'll be eaten or not. He's simply lost interest in us, and doesn't know what to do.

"I'm afraid that as much as you two need to be dealt with, I'm busy, so you can both sit outside until I'm ready to see you both."

"_Busy_?" Mole repeats, incredulous. Harris ignores him and starts reading something.

This is bad. An offended Christophé is a very unpredictable thing; that is something I have first-hand experience of. I shift my eyes over to him and see his shoulders shaking and his hands curled into fists, and quickly grab hold of his arm to pull him away. Surprisingly, he complies and Kinsley moves aside to let us through into the waiting room and the stiff, cold fury that riddled his figure has by now passed; he throws himself into the chair nearest to him and exhales sharply through his nose.

Now, here is where it gets complicated. To sit besides him would be to invade his personal space, something he might possibly get aggressive to. To sit a few seats from him might suggest _I'm_ uncomfortable, that my own personal space is more important than his well-being and _that_ might offend him and set him off. He might just need to go off on one, to let himself loose or something regardless of what sets it off.

"Thanks, Pip," he suddenly says, fixing his posture.

"T-thanks?"

"You always know what to do when I lose control, you know. Just, thanks," he says, looking at me and smiling. I walk past him and sit on the seat immediately to his right and it's only _then_, when I hear the distinct sound of bubbly laughter from behind me, do I realise that somebody else is in the room with us, a certain fellow South Park freshman who has the unhealthy talent of finding amusement in situations just like this one, regardless of who it is who's amusing him. "What the fuck do you want, Tucker?"

He flips us off and spreads himself across the entire bench, his head hanging off the edge to continue leering at us. "Go ahead, guys, don't stop your little confession session 'cause of me. Just throw me a word of warning if zippers start dropping, right?"

"You'd like to see that wouldn't you?" Mole retorted, inspecting his finger nails.

"Hey, it's Pip who bottoms, right? He's the bitch?" I feel heat flush my face and turn away to let these two continue their pissing contest with the hope they keep me out of it all. So fucking _vulgar_, how such an ideology can spread amongst our grade that Mole & I are, because of our friendship, fucking around beneath bedsheets and beyond prying eyes. Besides, he just isn't my type. Neither of them are; I don't have a 'type', or a preference (one with a name, anyway), just a single desire for a single person who at this moment is not present with us to evoke any sexual feelings I may possess. So to discuss anything relating to it right now isn't something I feel like doing.

Craig is, God, I don't know where to begin. Difficult? It's as if it's in his genes to stick his nose into everything there is that can have a nose stuck into. Sneaky? Well, I think I'm pretty good at spotting things, yet never realised he was in the room with us until he felt the need to ridicule us. If he didn't feel the need to laugh, then I wonder what Christophé could have started talking about?

Craig continues staring at us from his own bench, his body facing upwards so his face hangs upside down as if he didn't have a care in the world. His dark hair's just long enough to meet the floor and his eyes are just far away enough to not let me in on what he's thinking. No 'gleam', or 'twinkle'; right now he's simply looking at us. "Pip," he says.

"Yes, Craig?"

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

I shudder, turning my back to him again. I hear him get up, but the sound of a door opening interrupts whatever he was planning to do.

"Craig, I'd like to see you now if you wouldn't mind." Mr. Harris says from his doorway. I hear him sigh, before walking into the principal's office.

Ah, that's better. I think I can actually… well… think, now that there isn't anything distracting me anymore. Smothering. I can't help it; sex is my white elephant, and watching two guys crash antlers charges that small crook in the corner of my mind that calls for me to fall into, an escape.

And I do just that, I escape into this small part of myself, to brood. Not the most candid setting, the secretary's office, but damn it if I'm going to let the atmosphere seep into the fold, my train of thought; this brain ain't big enough for the two of us, and I got here first.

Mole's head falls onto my shoulder, and I realise that the bitter air he carried from earlier has completely disipitated.

Cunt.


	3. Chapter 2

**Well well, dear reader(s)! I have some very sad news to give, that news being that I no longer have a stable Internet connection and I very much _don't_ like updating from somebody else's IP. For obvious reasons. :B But of course I bring you my next chapter with a week to spare in terms of a deadline! My exams went very well, much better than I anticipated; right now I'm simply scoping out Universities for 2010 and such. Hopefully I'll get the place I want (*crosses fingers whilst whispering "Bournemouth!"*). Wish me luck, 'eh? And oh boy are things getting thick, and sticky, and _heated_ in this thing. I love writing dialogue between Pip and Mole, though my favourite stuff so far is in the next chapter that I'm still working on. There's tons more between the two, and Pip & Kyle too, later on... right now I'm just thrusting you all into a corny plot. Please ignore it.**

**I fucking love reviews, just to let you know! /review whore**

**Chapter 2**

_It was at lunch when I was taken home._

_Sister took me from class just as it finished, without informing any of the teaching staff. The following couple hours would result in them scouring the building__ in search of me. She had managed to find me a babysitter while she made her way to the hospital where my mum and dad were, and it wasn't until late that evening when I saw her again. She once again explained what had happened, but this time I knew exactly what had happened. Throughout the weeks that followed more and more people would stop by; other babysitters, friends of my Sister, and on one occasion my only childhood friend and his parents, Pocket, which was nice. We had fun over the week that he stayed, and I was sad when he returned to England._

_However, that sadness was nothing to what I felt for my parents._

_My first questions were all _Why_, my two most common questions ranging from "why _did_ they die?" to "why did _they_ die?" As the days passed, all the while spent with my continued lack of social interaction, I grew to understand how it happened. Mr. Mackey's advice changed over the weeks, subtle changes in his wording, until all he asked me to do was roll with whatever punches (both figuratively and literally) were thrown my way, to keep smiling. He had spoken to the other children and no matter what he asked of them, he couldn't find the source of their distaste for me. After several months of asking myself why the other children hated me, I realised: there was no reason; they bullied me for no reason other than that they enjoyed doing so. Then I realised why _my_ parents died, nobody else's parents, _mine_: there was no reason; sometimes, people just die, and there's sometimes no reason why they do so and there's sometimes no reason why they just so happen to be your parents._

_People just die, sometimes._

*****

"Boys," Principal Harris says, startling Christophé out of his nap. Craig fled the room out into the corridor. "Lunch is finishing now, Craig needed a serious talking to… hurry on to class, the both of you. For your smoking offences, coupled with the late arrival, you're both on two strikes. Be sure not to make a third, or else I'd be forced to suspend you both for the rest of the week. Get going," he finishes, withdrawing into his office.

"Well," Mole said. He got up whilst stretching his arms. "I don't know about you, but I might juz' go home."

A nice invitation, but wasted on deaf ears. Next up was English; a very nice, very quiet, very clothes preferable lesson and one of the very few I manage to share with Kyle. My silence seemed to have answered the question, as Mole simply huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Of course, I forgot."

I laughed and followed where Craig had left. Then realised I haven't urinated yet today. That soda from this morning, along with the tea, and the other soda at lunch all demanded immediate evacuation, really not giving me any say in the matter. The last dregs of adolescence trickle down corridors to their specified classes as I make my way to the only toilet that's remotely near our English block, and as I go to push my way through the door it's shoved roughly from the other side, knocking me to the ground. From it emerges Eric Cartman, to my horror, and as he realises what he's done he smirks and looms over me.

"Watch where you're going, you fucking tard."

I shrink back, not liking this situation. He's much larger than I am, and not afraid to kick somebody while they're down. "S- sorry, Eric, I guess I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Yeah. As much as you and that French faggot seem to like each other, you should at least keep your mind out of his pants and in the world around you. Maybe then you'll see where you're going, God," he says, stepping over me to head towards class. As he walks off I quickly get up and brush any dust that may have clung to my jacket, seething from once again acting like a fucking pussy. Outcome after outcome, all involving me being either quick-witted enough to confuse him or brave enough to answer back and challenge him flood my brain. Why they never spring to mind when they're useful, say, as everything is actually happening, I don't fucking know; shit, if only I was able to think on my feet (or arse, whatever) like Kyle-

I push open the lavatory door and am promptly floored by fate's wicked plotting as I lay eyes upon the very boy I was just thinking of.

His back is turned. From his (admittedly as a frequent model of my 'studies') hunched figure I can tell he is damn pissed; I don't need a fucking magnifying glass to figure out this mystery, Watson, we're both alike, after all. Our fucking link has just left us not thirty seconds ago.

He turns, and it's _that_ look, one that I'm also prone to display in moments of hate-filled privacy, the one that occasionally still shows on his own face after confrontation that confirms it all. Once he spots me, however, it softens to what is an accepting smile. He may be Kyle Broflovski, but he's still human and he still doesn't want others to see his real emotions, especially if they were raised over something as stupid as an insult from a fat prick like Cartman.

"Hey Pip," he says, his shoulders slumping slightly as he relaxes. I quickly make my way to a stall as my earlier joke replays itself, the one from in the cop car, and shudder over how disgusting it was. I hear him walking around and that, knowing he's right there but a few feet from me makes it _really_ hard to piss. I'm nervous enough as it is; I find it impossible to use urinals, and I can't crap on anything other than my own toilet at home. This doesn't fucking help, and sure enough I zip up having stood there for almost a minute like a fucking lemon not doing my business because he's _still_ just knocking around the room like a fucking idiot. I throw open the stall door and he's stood over by the only working sink. "I figured, because we have the same class now, that if we both came in together we wouldn't get in as much trouble for being late."

"… Right-o," I mumble, turning on my heel to leave. He quickly follows, and as we begin making our way to class he asks me why I hadn't washed my hands back there. Immediately, I realise I _hadn't_, and put it down simply to me not wanting to get too close to him (regardless of the fact we're walking side by side right now). I'm pretty quick, though, and manage to weave truth and lie together and inform him: "I didn't even piss, because I can't go if anybody's near me." He giggles, and I look at him.

"I'm sorry, it's, it's just that I'm the same. Sorry about that."

"Oh! Well, it's simply a harmless bodily function that you weren't aware of. Don't fret over it," I say after a few seconds pause. He doesn't, and before long we're standing outside our class.

I swallow. Not because of Kyle (hell, I'm not _that_ obsessed over him), but because of regardless of how well I do in this class and how much our teacher Mrs. Cartwright likes me, our lateness (wow, almost 10 minutes?) is something she won't like, so now I'm hoping that we're simply given a passing glance or something; I really, _really_ don't want that third strike. And then the strangest idea makes itself present in my thoughts. But—no—I can't fucking ask for that.

Can I?

"Kyle?"

I wish I had taken up Mole's offer right about now.

"Huh?"

"D-do you—" Come on, man, spit it out! "Do you want to skip?" I mentally groan when the last movement, that _pop_ of my lips, is made, and he gives me the stare of a lifetime. Confusion? Bemusement? You fucking _idiot_, Pip, you just had to ask. You could have at least asked in a manner that isn't to be expected from a complete fucktard. You could have worded yourself better. Oh, God! He still hasn't answered, and he's still giving that bemused stare!

"… You're kidding, right? Why?"

"I-I'm on my, my second strike and we're—" _glance, _"—nine minutes late. Please, Kyle! I can't handle the pressure of getting a Strike Out! Skip class with me!" I beg, wringing my hands together. Well, since when did I turn into Tweek? All I need is a coffee thermos and the knack of warning others of ridiculous conspiracies involving their clothes on a more frequent basis.

"Jesus, Pip, calm down, I have a late pass."

"Y-you… you do?"

"Yeah dude, chill." He grabs my shoulder and squeezes it.

"R-right-o," I stammer, stuffing twitching hands into pant pockets. He smiles at me again, that warm smile, before letting go and opening the door.

I feel sick. I wonder if this was what it was like for Stan so long ago, for that sudden rush of butterflies to flood your stomach, and make you want to vomit. As Kyle presents his pass to teacher I make my way towards my own seat and to my surprise find it taken. I look up and find very few people in their regular place, actually, and many seem to be working together on something.

"Since you were late, I'll fill you both in," she says, and I turn to see her handing several sheets of blank paper to Kyle. "Your next project starts today; it's to build on your ability to study others. To do this the class has been split into pairs and the task is to write a story involving your partner, making sure to project them in an accurate manner."

Hum.

"When is it due, Mrs. Cartwright?"

What.

"The end of the year, I expect you both to spend the majority of the time working together in your own time."

"Excuse me," I interrupt, not sure of what I'm going to say next. My hands are definitely shaking now, no doubt about it. This is crazy. "I, what… what does this do for our grades? How will this be marked, exactly?"

"You read each other's story, dumb ass," someone calls out. Someone else follows with, "and mark it, geez."

I frown. I'm not a dumb ass, I'm just… hindered… by, uhm… my own stupidity.

I'm a dumb ass.

I try to calm myself down, yet before I know it I'm being _dragged_ by Kyle towards a free desk, his hand wrapped around my elbow so his fingers dig into the small crook of the joint right into a very sensitive nerve; I have to bite back a shriek from the shot of pain up my arm. This much contact isn't fucking helping my nausea, and although I'm settling into a chair, feeling him sit so closely beside me simply _un_settles everything else.

"Come on, I want to get this started. You alright, dude?"

No, I'm not alright, _dude_, my stomach is in knots.

"I'm fine," I lie. Breathe, Pip. Breathe. Judging from what everybody else is doing I assume we're simply doing some research into our partners. This should actually be fun.

I look around the room and take note of a few of the pairs. Unsurprisingly, Craig has paired up with Tweek, who is spazzing out under a barrage of questions from the focused brunette. Token and Wendy are both talking in hushed tones over in a corner, looking directly at each other and ignoring the writing side of our task. Butters seems to be trying to converse with a moody looking North Park resident I'm not familiar with, and failing.

"So," Kyle says, drawing my attention back to him. Wow, those eyes are incredible. "You want to start? Or shall I?"

"Y-You start, I think I had something bad for lunch," I pick up my pen and grab some paper. "I'll just write for now."

"Oh, alright… I uh, I guess I'll start with likes and dislikes, then. I like video games, and pretty much all kinds of music, besides Barbara Streisand, and playing basketball. Fuck, I'm not too good at this kind of thing… dislikes-"

"Cartman?" I put forward, startling him slightly. He looks at me, and then starts laughing.

"I guess, yeah."

"You're not the only one," I say, tittering. We both smile at each other over this.

"He's a fucking asshole, alright."

"What else?"

"Huh? Well, he's also a fat, stupid sociopath-"

"I mean dislikes, Kyle," I tell him, before laughing myself. "What other things do you dislike?"

"Oh. Uh. Lemme see… I dunno. You want to talk to me first? My mind's kind of elsewhere right now…"

"Oh, alright," He writes my name down on the top of his sheet and looks up at me expectantly. "I was born in England, obviously. In a town called Reading. I moved over here when I was six, when my sister got her degree in Law, and a few months later my parents… um," I swallowed, my mouth suddenly feeling dry. "You know. Well, my dream is to become a writer, actually. My favourite sports are Golf and Football and my favourite team is Leeds, but they're pretty awful now. Leeds with two E's, Kyle. L-E-E-D-S."

"You mean Soccer?" he asks stupidly.

"Well, if you want to call it that, but the original name is Football," I inform him. He shrugs and turns back to his work. "I hate insects, all insects. Especially spiders and ants, as you can't hear them unless they're those ants that live in a certain rainforest in Central America that shriek at you before they attack. Bloody horrifying. I like dogs, I imagine. Never owned one, though. Cats I'm indifferent to. You ever watched _Only Fools and Horses_? There's a Great Dane on that show sometimes and it's bloody huge and I'd love to have one just like it."

"Hold on," he mumbles, writing furiously. "Only Fools and _what_?"

"Horses."

The rest of the lesson continued in this manner, Kyle writing down everything I had to say; by the time Mrs. Cartwright told us to stop I was talking of my severe dislike of coconut, Kyle having filled almost three sheets with pointless facts regarding myself.

"Would anybody like to step to the front and tell the class about their partner? Anybody?" Several students sunk into their chairs, obviously having spent the entire class simply chatting idly. I spotted Butters as one of them; I guess he had failed in getting information from his partner. "Craig and Tweek, you two, if you don't mind."

Craig called out in exasperation in being called on (man, it's always me!), and Tweek practically fell out of his chair (oh _God_!).

"Hey, Pip," Kyle whispered as they both made their way to the front. "You wanna come over today? We can continue with this if you want. I don't have anything planned."

My brain stopped at his request for a few seconds, struggling to fully comprehend.

"Well, Tweek likes coffee, and animals, as long as they're docile and not taller than his knee, or smaller than his foot. I know, I don't get too but whatever. He hates bicycles, and guitars, and pressure-"

"I'd l-love to," I started, keeping my eye on the quivering blond at the front of the class. "But I've got something to do. Sorry."

"Oh. Well, alright."

I closed my eyes and wanted to punch myself in the face. You fucking clod, you don't have a damn thing planned after school, Pip. Quit being a wimp.

As we exited the classroom for next period, I lagged behind as Kyle jogged from class in hope to catch up to Craig as they both were on the basketball team together, and Kyle wanted to know when the next Practice was. As I began packing away my books I heard Butters and Tweek talking, and as I passed them on my way out I couldn't help but laugh as I heard Tweek cry out, "dude, you're _sawing away on tightly wound strings with thin sharp pieces of plastic. Gah!_"

*****

"So, jus' what's made you this 'appy?"

Mole & I regularly met under these circumstances, in hushed tones amongst brutish troublemakers after school. The fact that I was to be paired with Kyle for the rest of the school year had slowly dawned over me throughout Biology and from then until now I had drifted in a haze; only now was I truly beaming. Sure, I had somehow messed up in getting to spend the afternoon with him, but considering I had so long to get to know him it felt like nothing more than a slight slip up. Oh well.

"Well? Are you at the point where seeing him makes you giddy?" He prodded me as another student distracted the only teacher present.

"Oh, _Christophé_," I sung. Gleeful is a better fitting word. "It's so much more than that." He shushed me as the teacher turned towards us. I couldn't remember the man's name.

Suddenly a small fold of paper landed on the floor beside me, Mole hunched over his own desk again.

I hate passing notes.

_What is it then,_ the writing said. I quickly tore a strip from the bottom of my line sheet and jotted down my answer, before balling it up and flicking it at him. We'd gotten good at this: keep the paper small; flick from under the desk; use your thumb to project the note, generating power from your wrist is more difficult and requires you moving your shoulder which can be seen; aim for the body, the lines of chairs make it impossible to see the note land on the floor from where the teacher usually stands. We'd almost perfected it, I still missed Chris sometimes, resulting in him then having to wait for an opportunity to actually reach out and get it. Luckily, I didn't miss him this time; a second teacher entered the room shortly after we began passing notes, making it impossible for us to continue our little 'discussion'.

*****

"All year?"

"All year. We have to write a story about one another."

We had exited detention a few minutes early, and decided to walk home. The bus was way past due now, anyway.

"I bet this is making your day, right?"

"You have _no_ idea, Christophé. I can't even begin on what I'm feeling right now. It's as if… as if… …you _see_? I get that far and then my mind simply floods with warm cotton."

"What are you going to write about?"

"I don't _know_ yet, that's the problem. I guess I should just get to actually know him better before I do anything. As perfect as he seems right now, he might have some kind of, of abnormality or something. Like a bad taste in music, or a creepy fetish-"

"Wouldn't zat turn you on though? I know you, _Peep_, you are a freaky guy-"

"Shut your damn mouth, _Mole_," I warned, shoving him. "I know your game; shovels? Knifes? Guns? Fucking _rope_? Please, your hobbies scream 'Extreme Bondage'."

"You wish," he laughs, pushing me back. We start a small shoving match, which ends in record time with me pinned face down to the recently cleared walkway we're using, both my arms held behind me. The snow may have been cleared, yet the ground was still wet. "Now, what do you say?"

"Pinning… me down…" I say, chest crushed against the gravel below. "You disgusting brute. You… like your victims helpless?" I hear him laugh again, before feeling him grope the left side of my lower torso, causing the last of the air to escape my lungs in shrill giggles.

"Are you going to admit zat my hobbies are simply recreational, or am I going to 'ave to continue?" He stops, waving the hand in front of my face. "I can keep zis going all day."

"Alright!" I choke, as his hand floats away from my field of vision. He lifts off me and offers the same instrument of torture he had just been using on me seconds ago, which I ignore. "Prick," I scold, picking myself up. He simply shrugs and starts walking ahead, leaving me wiping myself down.

As often as we've 'fought', I can't ever recall actually besting the Frenchie; my lack of dexterity and general frailty makes it hard for me to best anyone the same age as me, actually. One thing I've noticed about Mole is how different he is with me compared to, say, the hall monitor from this morning. There's no aggression when it's me; everything he does to me is in a teasing manner, almost bully-like, from the headlocks to the tickling; oh fucking Christ, the _tickling_. Sometimes I've envied those who have simply just been punched in the stomach then stepped over, like the majority of those who Christophé disposes of in scuffles. But no, _I'm_ always pinned down, or grabbed or something; if we wouldn't have been out in this biting air and if the floor wasn't wet I bet he would have continued either until he got bored or if I got too annoying to listen to.

"Your face gets all flushed every time I do that to you, Philip, it's so cute," he teases, calling out from further ahead. I feel my blush deepen and my body go stiff; my face is uncomfortably hot, excited from his antics. His bloody fucking _antics_.

I fix my hat (how it never fell off I don't know), then take out a box of cigarettes from my pocket, the very packet I swiped from Christophé just seconds ago as he was busy forcing me to the ground, and pull one out and light it.

One thing I've figured out about myself is that I'm easily addicted to things; with cigarettes you're not having to inject yourself with anything or snort anything (I don't know about you, but to me the latter, snorting large quantities of powder up such a sensitive area genuinely nauseates me, although not as much as the former), you just have to inhale it. And what's less of a chore than inhaling? It's also a very quick process, mere minutes which can also be spent doing something _else_ at the same time, in comparison to a lot of other things which are addictive.

And sure, they're expensive, but when your sister is a chain-smoker who leaves packets of the things everywhere around the house you don't need to spend much of your own money on fuelling your habit. And when you're out, chances are Mole has some, and though he's a mercenary with a trained mind, he never remembers that the person usually accompanying him has inherited more than just the accent and the homosexuality of your typical British teenage orphan. And sure enough, he makes a double take as I pass him, smoking cigarette hanging limply from my mouth.

He pats his pants pockets, before chasing me.

*****

I return to an empty house.

The first time Mole visited, he was more surprised than anything. Perhaps he expected a run down shit-hole fit only for a parentless, hopeless kid and his crazy older sister. As crazy as she is, she still works constantly; the only sign of craziness I see from it is that she actually _works_, considering our inheritance. My father wrote some of the most regularly used books in the English Secondary School English course, selling thousands of copies a year; I'll never know how the profits end up belonging to us but they do, and it's something a whole family can live off, never mind a 'crazy' woman who works twice as much as she sleeps, and her younger brother. We may not live in a huge mansion like Token Black's family (I don't believe we'd be able to cope with the abundance of space), but I like to believe we're just as wealthy as they are, and whatever time not spent working or sleeping, my sister buys things. Wait, sorry, she buys "very striking" things simply because she feels that to not do so would be "to cheat those who've made these incredibly expensive works of art out of their rightful payment for exerting their creativity, as leaving so much money just sleeping in a bank is wasteful".

So, everywhere you turn, you should expect to have 'creativity' staring you down. It's sometimes as depressing as what I feel an actual run down house would feel like; everything you look at is overpriced bollocks you don't, and never will, need nor even _like_. I call this place my 'house', but never have I really felt it to be an actual home, just somewhere I happen to live. Calling this place a home is a challenge when you consider how often it changes in appearance. I know I sound bratty; there's heated water and all the food I can eat where there are millions of people over the world that never get the chance of this kind of lifestyle, but I can't help but seethe. It's the sheer stupidity of it all, that these disgusting things. My sister's stuck in a cosmopolitan lifestyle, where class is above all else.

I make a beeline straight to my room; dear sister almost got creative control over it, yet when she brought up the idea of yellow walls I had to insist otherwise. At the top of the stairs, however, a new painting greets me: a girl on a home made swing consisting of cheap rope and a plank of wood, only one of the pieces of rope appear not to be tied to the branch above it. As if it was caught in mid-air. As confusing as it was, I couldn't help but keep staring at it; I keep looking at everything, I guess, because I hope that one day I _would_ eventually like one of the things my sister brought home.

I tear myself away from the picture and begin getting undressed, sure enough that no matter how long I'll look at it, the thing won't grow on me. Speaking of growing, I'm due a growth spurt I realise as I unbutton my shirt and let it spill easily to the floor. I don't even need a mirror to confirm this, but the one at the end of the hall is more than willing to do so anyway. I stare at it for several seconds, until a pain rears in my stomach, making me wince slightly.

Perhaps I _did_ have something bad for lunch.

"I'm going to bed," I tell nobody, barging open my bedroom door and kicking off my shoes. I don't bother taking my jeans off as I lie down, and try to drift off.

But I can't.

It's definitely a trick of the mind, these tingles in the small crook of my arm, just at the joint. Where he grabbed me. The sight of him, it fills the black underneath my closed eyelids and warmth slowly seeps down my midriff. I focus on those perfect pink lips, deftly sculpting the tantalising sounds that escape and play about with my brain. And that's all what they are right now, just sounds. I can't formulate coherent words right now as I further build a more complete reconstruction of him in my mind's eye, of his smooth ivory skin and bouncy scarlet curls, of those startlingly striking eyes. They're not so much green as they are boundless meadows under a blazing sun, or newly discovered jewels mined from the deepest caverns. After spending so much time watching from a distance, the startlingly close experience of today was exactly that; unearthing emeralds from what was already a select source.

God, those fucking _eyes_.

I palm myself; even through the thick material of my jeans there are rippling sensations, making a moan start in my throat.

I could be cleaning right now, picking up my discarded shirt in the hall and packing away the mess in my room. I could even be doing my homework, or something. I could be reading a good book, or the newspaper; I am usually behind on current affairs.

The box is too far underneath the bed to grab without having to roll from the mattress to the carpet below. I'm shook from blindness as I crash to the floor, my eyes snapping open. I had hoped I could simply keep them closed to keep Kyle in my mind's eye, in desperation of not letting him slip, but I felt a graze on my elbow at landing and spot a burn. I hook the Kleenex quickly, eager to resume. I get up and close my eyes again. Inhale. Fall back onto the sheets.

_There you are, dear_.

Upon lying back down he returns, if possible, in an even more beautiful light than 30 seconds ago. This time there is no reconstruction. The sight delivers immediately, in deliciously full Technicolor, and I wriggle my hips to help my jeans down my thighs to give me room to work. Before too long I'm settled into a rhythm of steady pumping and weighted breathing, and reality dissolves; it's just a floating bed, and my disgusting mind. He's the most inanimate wank-fodder I've ever used; just the image of him in English, his lips, those _perfect pink lips_, split in a smile to reveal white teeth over our joke regarding the fat ass, and those striking eyes. I focus. Passion builds up within me. The sense of touch easily overwhelms every other property of what makes me human to _truly_ make me feel _human_, alive in the most powerful sense of the word, and touch… tingly tingly touch… fucking hell, it spikes at the clinical moment: blood, crashing through my veins, charges with thick, delicious heat; my body trembles; my toes curl and my back arches—_haaaaaah­­_—and breath punches from my lungs out with whatever primal noise I make at climax.

I slump, exhausted. Euphoric. Wow.

_Wow_.

"Wow," I confirm, breathless. I allow the afterglow to wash over me, and feel every nerve ending tingle, every cell in my body radiate. Pulse feels universal. My eyelids feel heavy. My stomach… yuck. "Shower," I grumble, suddenly feeling very human again.

I slowly clean off any excess, grimacing at the tortuous sensations of continually rubbing over myself with such course tissues. My alarm clock tells me that there are still twenty minutes until sister gets home, which by the time she does return I should be fluffing damp hair and generally being squeaky-clean. Squeaky-Clean-Philip, that's exactly what I am, alright.

When I return down stairs a full thirty minutes later the house is still empty; the sound of my bare feet padding against the laminated flooring echoes very slightly, the sound bothering me enough to start humming. A hungry stomach whines for filling, and I've never been one for ignoring when it so desires. I at least cover it with a clean shirt from the dryer.

_Sister would kill me_, I muse, pulling a pizza from the freezer. Not only because of the fact I'm eating a whole pizza to myself, but because she feels that my diet is in need of a major shift towards 'healthy'. I follow the cooking directions completely, and have had it in the oven for just over 10 minutes when the doorbell rings. The odour of cheese and tomato sauce is slowly filling the air, and the wait is tedious, so I'm glad for the interruption.

The Mole greets me as I open the door, along with a chilling gust. I drag him inside and quickly close the door behind me.

"I wasn't aware zat you were so in need of social interaction, Philip-" I hit him on the arm, before turning to tend to my pizza. "what's with ze violence?"

"I'd rather be in the presence of you whilst _inside_ a warm room than _outside_, along with a freezing blast of air; not saying you're a ray of sunshine, but you just barely pass over the possibility of me catching a cold. So don't flatter yourself."

"Do I smell pizza?"

"Ugh, you come here and disturb the warm aura around my skin by forcing me to expose myself to this awful weather, and now you're going to steal my food-"

"Well, you _do_ owe me those cookies, remember?"

"Here," I say, rummaging through the cupboard that _should_ contain the foodstuffs he sought, yet am thwarted. "Fuck. I'll get you a plate."

"Good."

I took the pizza out as soon as it looked remotely cooked; my impatient hunger had gotten the better of me and was hoping to be satisfied with the whole thing, yet Mole had already got himself two plates and the kitchen knife. "Have you thought of what you're going to write yet?" he asked, eyeing me as I divided it.

"Seriously? Is this the reason you've stopped by?"

"I'm worried zat you're just going to spill some of zat famously stupid British drivel into it, so I stopped by to keep your mind on a… on a decent track," he said, stealing the largest slice.

"As opposed to indecent?" I asked through a mouth of chewed cheese and tomato sauce. "Maybe I _want_ to do that."

"What, and make him realise zat he was paired with a love-crazed creep?"

"Oh, please-"

"I'm not kidding."

We stood at the table eating, I not being able to think of anything to say.

"You eat too slow," he joked, prodding me.

"I savour my food. You should try it; In America you're not stuck with frogs and snails—get _off_, you ass!" I twisted out of his hold, laughing. "I'm going upstairs to get socks. _Leave that last slice_, Frenchy, I swear that if you touch it I'll fucking flay you."

I return to an empty plate.

But I don't care. And not because my feet were warm again, oh no.

"_Christophé_," I sing. He eyes me warily, as I flitter about the place. "I've got it. I've bloody _got_ it, I swear that I have."

"Zen what is it?"

"The story. What I'm going to write. It's, it is fucking genius is what it is, and I've got it. The years spent timidly following my dearly dead dad's written footsteps will pay off once and for all when I write this story. You think that any glimpse into what I am will crystallise poor Kyle's spine fluid, that he'll have to find the nearest bucket to dispose of his breakfast with. Why do you think that, my dear Christophé? Because you've never experienced romance." He scoffs at this. "Not like I have, not like I'm doomed to endure forever more if I'm to be trapped within whatever the hell you call this. And Kyle, he is one of those kinds of people who, when emotion stares them in the face, must acknowledge it. And if it's presented in a way that draws forth sympathy then he can't simply push it aside, he'd have to understand and possibly even embrace it. People can be misled into anything if the path that will lead them in the first place is enticing enough.

"It's so simple; I'll just show him a softer, beautiful side of myself. The story will build, subtle romance will tease him and just when the champion is about to choose the love of his best friend my story will stop. At the moment, the _exact moment_ that the character decides. He'll know what it all means, and he'll know exactly why I've done it. And all he needs to do is say 'yes' or 'no' when we next meet, perhaps I'll make him read it while I'm present so I get an answer right away."

"You really are somezing, Philip," he says, slightly taken aback.

"I know I am. Now, do you mind fucking off so I can start? No time like the present, and all that bollocks. Cheerio, good night, bon voyage and what-not. Have a safe walk."

He leaves (somewhat reluctantly), and all thought of pizza, or French people or the news or that stringless home-made swing, all thought is absent in my brain except that of the biting bug of creativity. Tonight will be a long night, and a good night. I put the kettle on, and skip to father's office.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/n: **Hum. Still no Internet, yet I've had this bugger finished for a long time and I'm sick of it being there just, not being used in any way so I'm unleashing its beastly sordid contents upon you, the dear reader. I'm venturing into the unplotted oceans of American Private Schooling which, as a working class Brit, is as alien to me as the rules of Cricket. But we won, didn't we?! If you're Australian then Ha, Ha, in your _face_.

also; reviews are good, though the constructive criticism is much more wonderful. If you have any kind of interesting tidbits to give to me I'd be more than welcome to read them and return the favour. I mean, we're all here to scratch each other's backs am I right? Well, backs and _other_ places, too, if you know what I mean. *wink wink, nod nod*

**Chapter 3**

Tuesday morning is a flood of questions and wasted time. Christophé, bless his soul, thinks I'm capable of putting the ideas I'm having into coherent words and sentences, more of which are forming in my brain without so much as a piece of paper to jot them down on. Not only that, but an otherworldly force, be it fate or the subconscious remembering of Kyle's usual movements between classes, makes it that I bump into him several times by the time lunch arrives.

I'm seated in a random classroom half an hour before English starts, shared with a small group of geeks playing whatever card game geeks play in the days of card games no longer being cool, when Mole ghosts besides my side, scaring an entire, gloriously whole yelp from me. The group glare at us, and Mole's left trying to not laugh as I spend the next few minutes apologising to them and then actually learning the rules to their game and how to pronounce a few of the more exotic beasts that are in play. By the time I'm happy enough with the atmosphere I sit back down, several seats away from Christophé.

"You will never guess," he whispers, sliding over into chair besides me; I can't help but flinch and recoil very slightly. "What I've got for us on Friday night."

"Unless it's a box of chocolates, or, better yet, a box_ set_ containing the entire works of Rowan Atkinson, I'm not all that interested-"

"An ounce of ze greenest, most potent smoke you'll ever experience is currently wrapped inside ze pillowcase under my bed."

"You—I—I don't even… _what_?"

"My muzzer is out on Friday night. You can bring along whatever poncey shows you want."

"Well, my sister _did_ just order Jeeves & Wooster, I think-"

"It's Moroccan, by ze way. Like from last summer."

"… Christophé, I bloody love you."

"Do you two _mind_?" one of the boys from earlier asks, now standing over us. I recognise him as the one who would most likely be the 'leader' of the group; there usually is one. He'd actually look somewhat attractive if he wore glasses that didn't look like he'd ransacked Ronnie Barker's grave, and the tattered sandy blonde hair and worn sweater do nothing to help in his appearance, considering the former looks like it needs a wash and the latter is too baggy. He shifts his spectacled gaze from me to Christophé and flinches at the Frenchie's glower aimed directly at him, the hand moving to his glasses faltering in front of his mouth. He backs off, the position of his arms making him look ridiculous.

"Let's go," I say, getting my bag. I apologise once again to the group before darting out of the room, Mole in quick pursuit.

"You need to stop doing zat."

"Doing what?" I ask, not really paying enough attention. If I make my way to English now I can cram in some of the better ideas I've been musing over throughout the day and maybe—_urk_.

"_Apologising_ to people, Pip, I mean Jesus." He's pulled me back by the tie I stupidly chose to wear for today, and I can't breathe.

"I can't _breathe_," I wheeze.

"Every time somebody gets a little pissed off you go about saying your sorries and shit, fuck, it's as if you're afraid of people hating you."

OK, something is definitely wrong here as my throat seems to have been crushed by Mole and his infernal tie wrangling.

"Are you ok, Philip?" He thumps my back, which only makes things worse as now my spine will probably bruise and I'm _still_ coughing perhaps maybe die here not having given my love to the one who—"shit, you're turning purple"—something or other, shit I hope I was wrong about atheism and whatnot does it really take that long to, to pass out, yes maybe-maybe-

*********

Light, the fated foe of unadjusted eyes, invades my sight in all of its florescent brilliance. I take the time to try and blindly take in whatever information I can from my surroundings. The air smells very clean, like the rubber gloves that dentists wear. There aren't any beeps or anything, so I doubt I'm in any actual medical facility. The road isn't shaking, so I'm not in an ambulance.

Suddenly there's a voice to my right, startling me into movement.

"He's fine from what I can tell from examining him, but I want to at least speak to him before doing anything else, Ms. Pirrup—of course we'll contact you right away—he's alright, just some bruising around his neck from what I can tell right now. Yuh-'uh. You'll be picking him up in ten minutes? Can I advise waiting until he at least wakes up to see what he wants beforehand—I understand, of course Ms. Pirrup I'll, yes… I'll see you soon. God, what a pain in the ass."

"Was that my sister?" I ask, surprised by the lack of volume in my voice. I suddenly realise that I'm shirtless in the vicinity of a very startled female nurse.

"Y-You're awake then, Philip? That's good to see, yes. Your sister will be here shortly to pick you up-"

"What… what happened to me?"

"Your friend, that clumsy French one." The nurse, Nurse Peterson, hands me a glass of ice water and I gratefully begin chugging it down. "He accidentally pulled your tie too tight and almost choked you. Had to cut the damn thing off. No idea _why_ he was carrying a knife with him but it's a lucky thing he was; hope you didn't like that tie too much, kiddo."

"Don't worry, I have more of them. Don't worry about it…"

"Me, worry? I _should_ be the one worrying; I mean, you almost suffocated."

I look at my watch; after-lunch classes are just starting right now. "I'm not going home," I say, lying down. My head hurts, as if I've been punched in the temple. Perhaps if I give myself five or ten minutes rest I'll be able to make it through the day. "Or, at least, I'm not going home 'till after English. She can take me wherever she pleases afterwards."

"That's the spirit. Is your vision blurred?"

"Not really. These lights aren't helping, though."

"Can you sit up for me please?" she asks, showing me a small flashlight and a throwaway tongue depressor. She casually ignores me complaint about the lights. "Come on, if you plan on staying at least prove that you're not going to faint in the middle of a class."

"I'd feel better if there weren't these god awful lights here, or if I could lie down as you checked on me—_aaah_—" She inspects my throat, pressing hard on the stick and testing my gag reflex.

"Just get this over and done with, then I'll give you a few minutes before I send you to class, alright?" She drops the depressor into a small waste disposal canister besides the bed I'm sitting on and then presses the listening end of her ear thingummy, whatever it's called my brain's jammed up bugger it all, against my bare chest, which is _bare_ and _warm_ and it's being invaded by something _cold_ and I feel like an ice cube's being pressed against me. Scrubs wasn't kidding when they joked about this, holy _fuck_ is it cold.

"Can't you, like, warm those things up before you use them?" I plead, watching her hoist them around her neck once again. I fish my shirt from the small box besides the bed and look over at her, to see if she's alright with me dressing again. She nods, smiling.

"I guess I can, but having several boys at home's given me this evil side, I guess. Seeing some of the reactions these children make when I use it is so adorable. There's one boy, also a freshman, who practically squeaks when I use it on him. Kyle his name is."

"Hum. Funnily enough I share classes with him," _and right now I can't get the image of him squirming and whimpering, shirtless, out of my mind. Thanks._ "We should be together right now in English, in fact." _Together—what is _wrong_ with me today?_

"Eyes," she says, holding the small flashlight up again. I sit back down again and let her shine the thing into mine, glad that no more cold fixtures are to be applied to anywhere upon my self. "He's a darling, that kid. Pretty much my favourite, if I have to go so far as to choose one—apart from _you_ of course, kiddo, don't look at me like that—it's a shame he's in here so often."

"Basketball?" I ask, looking for my shoes.

"Oh, no, he's a diabetic."

*********

"You didn't know?"

"I honestly hadn't the foggiest," I reply, still surprised. Luckily my sister decided against taking me home yet demanded that any signs of me appearing even slightly ill were to result in her being called to pick me up. After a few minutes loitering about a thankfully dark nurse's office I made my way to class, where Kyle was faithfully waiting for me. "I mean, you could have told me that yesterday, considering you needed things to talk about. I'm very sorry to hear you suffer from it."

"It's not as bad as it sounds, really," he tells me, brushing it off. I couldn't help but ask him the moment I sat down. Blunt as ever, Philip. 'Are you a diabetic?' Fuck, I'm more forward than a suggestive hospital wing. "But what about _you_? What happened with you and Christophé?" His tone is sceptical. No, his tone is a special kind of sceptical, withdrawn from the special folder of _Mole-related Scepticism_.

"He accidentally almost choked me. _Accidentally_." I emphasize the last word. "I was walking too fast and he yanked on my tie to stop me and the knot got too tight and was right over my windpipe; luckily he managed to cut the thing off and I had already passed out by then. Funny story, am I right? Let's get off of Christophé's back now as I'm greatly aware that you and others in our little group are wary of him for no reason other than he's a hired mercenary who kills people when he should be working on quadratic equations hey is that a new pen—"

"I'm just w—uhh, saying, Pip; you haven't seen Mole like we have. He's fucking psycho—"

"What is this you speak of? When have you seen him in his supposed element? The worst I've seen of him is his tendencies of tickling me which, as tortuous as they can be, aren't exactly actions that has me waking up in the middle of the night screaming "They're going to get us!" at the top of my lungs, or swimming in my own frozen juices. Sure, he vanishes for days at a time on occasion, but I've never actually experienced anything relating to it first hand." Well, besides the marijuana he picks up whenever he leaves the country, but that's another story entirely, and I doubt such a thing is kosher.

"Well, I'm just warning you Pip. The last thing I want to happen is for you to get drawn up in it all, everything that he gets up to."

"My life needs excitement anyway," I retorted. He huffed, turning his attention back to his work. "Seriously, stop worrying about me Kyle."

"Just—just start writing this all down, alright? Mrs. Cartwright'll probably call out more of us after this class is over and you still don't have me down—" _Stop voicing everything like that, Jesus_. "—I don't want us to get up there and then leave you with nothing to say."

"My pencil is poised, Kyle, go ahead."

"…"

"How about you start with your family or something?"

"Oh, yeah there's, well… I have one brother who is adopted. Fucking—this is _hard_," he whines, stretching his arms out, hands resting over the edge of the table.

"Talking about yourself is hard?"

"It's _boring_."

"Look at _your_ sheet and try and find ideas of things to talk about from that," I suggest, shoving his own notes closer to him. He eyes them from under heavily lidded eyes, before sighing and picking them up.

"Y'see, I wasn't even born in an interesting place like you were. I was born _here_, like _everyone else_; at least with you I hear interesting stuff. The only thing that sets me out is my religion."

"Oh yes. Judaism."

"Whoop-de-fuckin'-doo," he says, twirling one skinny pale wrist. I find myself following its motion right to it vanishing under his side of the desk, where I now find myself looking at him; a more private area of him, to be more precise. "Everything else you already know about me, Pip. Like the basketball, and the crazy parents and my brother, and the religious beliefs and my diabetes."

"You haven't even read the notes yet," I say, pointing at something further down at random to distract myself. "Here, Phobias! You must have a phobia, right?" He goes funny at me pointing this out, his hands clenching. "What?"

"Elevators. Enclosed spaces but fucking _elevators_ are the worst," he mumbles, the words tumbling from his mouth faster than I can immediately place. I begin writing, a small smile breaking out at thinking how adorable it was for his voice to rise an octave or so at him saying 'elevators'. "I knew it, you'd find it ridiculous."

"I find it cute," I blurt out, immediately realising my slip up and laughing. "By cute, I mean generally interesting. Y'know." He gives me a look that I'm quickly beginning to grow accustomed to. "Y'know, it's kind of kid-like, but still, it's a very common phobia amongst even grown men."

"Stan finds it ridiculous, so do the rest of the guys." He begins scanning the notes again, this time actually looking as if he's paying attention to them rather than just being a nuisance. "I'm weird with food, I guess. My mom always calls me fussy, but honestly it's only with what she cooks most of the time. Stan's mother must think I used to get starved at home, considering the amount of times I ate over at their place."

"Used to?"

"Yeah, I guess we kind of just stopped doing that. I mean, we're almost 15 now; I still go over sometimes but I never really bring over sleeping bags and toothbrushes and phone home asking my mom if I can stay over the next day for dinner as well, you know what I mean? I guess I just grew out of sleepovers."

"Mole and I still do that sometimes; actually, we've got something planned this Friday at his place."

"Really? What were you gonna do? Shoot _game_?"

"_Funny._ Sit about and watch things? Just be lazy, I guess. Eat cereal—" Kyle voices his own love for other people's cereals at this moment. "—and generally be lazy. Can't think of a better way of spending a weekend, honestly."

"So, like, sleeping bags and junk? Or are you two true to your European ways and sleep naked together?" he asks, laughing. If I were drinking something I'd most definitely be choking right now. "Just joking. I can't take Mole as one of those kinds of guys."

"Yet you can take _me_ as a naked European?"

"I don't know what to take you as, Pip," he says in a manner that if _he_ was drinking something he'd take a long, drawn-out sip from it right afterwards. "I mean, sure, you talked about yourself a lot yesterday, but it was all pretty trivial. You pretty much dodged anything relating to your family. If it's too uncomfortable then I understand, but you must admit that it's pretty frustrating sitting here with, well, someone as… as… _interesting_… as you seem to be and have him hold out on you—"

"Oh, you're one to talk," I replied, indignation creeping into my voice. I notice him falter slightly, a tinge of red matting his cheeks. "All you've done since starting this project is deflect everything onto me. The one really surprising thing I've learned about you in the last day didn't even come from _your_ mouth. And you're really boring."

"Compared to you, yeah…" Silence. Well, as silent as it can possibly get in a classroom full of yapping teenagers.

"I'm _interesting_?" I suddenly ask, nudging him.

"Jesus, Pip, shut up—"

"In what way?" I believe _Webster's Dictionary_ accounts **ecstacy** as a feeling of unrecognisable sensations that leave a person as if they were not present within their own body. Or something. Don't quote me on that. Do quote me, however, on my feeling of not being responsible for my own actions: really, I would never be this forward on say, Monday when we only began talking. In fact, I believe Monday's Kyle would have just told me to knock it off and do work, yet this Kyle seems to instead take it in his swing and laughs, leaning away from my fake put-on.

"Have I talked about my guilty pleasures? I really like—"

"Does my accent _do_ things to you? Eh? Nudge nudge, wink wink, does it do things down—"

"Knock it _off_, Pip," he hisses, swatting my elbow away, which was digging into his side. Well, so much for that. Although his tone forces me to back off slightly, it's nothing in terms of surprise to how red his face has gotten. He shifts away, closing his eyes and sighing. "Just knock it off. And write this down, alright?"

*********

To my fortune an offended Kyle is a talkative Kyle. Unfortunately, however, an offended Kyle who is actually talking to you is akin to sitting in a refrigerator. I found myself one of the first emerging from that day's English class (a first itself, I believe; I'm usually one to dawdle) to escape the atmosphere and promptly faked a faint spell to get let out of last classes early. Sister picked me up, fussing every several seconds on the drive home; it wasn't until I was home and changed into my softest jammies in bed, nursing a now genuine headache and repeatedly chancing a sip from the steaming mug of hot chocolate that I got to reflect on Kyle's behaviour from today. I've noticed him getting hot under the collar for many different reasons, yet very rarely are they the result of somebody who isn't Eric Cartman; I don't think I did anything that offensive, besides the joking about right as he started acting up. Perhaps he's clocked on to my actual intentions.

Really, could he have? I seriously doubt it, but the possibility is always there. He's pretty smart. Shit, I was acting pretty gay back there to him, wasn't I? I even made a gesture to his, his—

No. No, it's unlikely that he's realised, I mean it was just a joke. Besides, I've seen the others go much further than I did, with a stray elbow and a few dumb words; Stan Marsh alone has done and said enough things that in most situations he'd have his sexuality questioned, and don't even get me started on McCormick. Along with those two, Craig's always making passes at the likes of me and Tweek, and telling everyone to suck his, you know, that. And Clyde's prone to groping, regardless of what he's groping, just to get a rise from somebody else in our group. Christ, everybody in our group is fucking flaming when they want to be. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the others, including Kyle, have "experimented" themselves. And I'm fretting over one small episode from English? What's wrong with me?

Still, I can't get over his sudden mood swing from today.

"Phillip! Christophé's here!"

Shit. "Send him up please!" I yell. My head throbs and I curl into my sheets to shut out the cold and the light. Maybe this'll make me feel a little better—CRASH—"Headache, Christophé," I groan. The idiot has no sense of restraint, I think, as he throws open my poor door.

"Are you alright now, Pip?" he asks, tugging at my quilt. "Come on, enterzain your guest—"

"_Uninvited_ guest," I correct him, not even sure if he can hear me through this thick material. He continues pulling at it, though playfully.

"I only came over to check on you, make sure you haven't died. Doesn't zat warm your 'eart?"

"Well, I'm fifty-fifty; if you let me get some rest I should pull through. Come back later."

"… you're wearing pyjamas? At 4PM?"

"Don't stick your head up there, or I'll jam a heel into your nose. As you're aware I'm well adept at putting the hurt on such an appendage"

He forcefully yanks my shield away, exposing me to a cold air and a worsening headache.

"You wouldn't kick me, Phillip, you love me too much." He eyes up my white cotton pyjama shirt and shorts, tossing aside the duvet. "You 'ave any idea how gay you look in those things?"

"Do you have any idea how comfortable these are? They're my favourite," I moan. "Anyway, just what is so important that you've came over here to threaten my already dwindling health?"

"Nothing, really. Just bored."

"Then give me my bloody quilt back, I'm freezing."

"_Non_, you'll just 'ide under it. If you'll let me under with you zen maybe—"

"With those muddy boots on my sheet and that greasy hair on my pillow? No chance, matey. Give me it and I'll let you stay a while. Perhaps you can get me another hot chocolate and act as my nurse, make a fuss over me and what-not. You'd look utterly fetching in a skirt, yes. Those boots would have to stay on though, or else I'd develop unwanted desires."

"Don't be dull, Pip, entertain me."

"Oh, fuck off, Chris. What do you expect me to do in this half-assed, half-dead and half-naked state?"

"I know those shorts are ridiculously short but I'd say you're closer to quarter-naked," he jokes. I demand my duvet back and he grins, lifting it up. "I'll give you it back if—no, this is a fair offer—if you tell me why Kyle seemed to be in an 'uff at the end of ze day. I figured you'd know."

"At the end of the day?"

"Yeah, was he like zat in your class?" I hold my hand out. "If you're lying," he threatens, handing me it. As I start spreading it out he grabs my ankle. "I'll punish you."

"Ugh. _Fine_. It's funny, actually, because it took me entirely by surprise and I might need a few moments to actually remember everything—get_ off I'm getting t-to it-ahah!_ Why must you always _tickle_? Stop it! H-he wasn't when I entered class and he was when I left. Now get off."

"That makes no sense, what are you talking about?" Mole asks, still holding my leg.

"I mean that, and this is the funniest thing, I think _I_ caused his little sulk. Don't ask I have no idea what caused it for the love of God I _don't_ I swear I don't know, but one second we're talking and then he says something and I start joking around with him then he just gets all angry with me—"

"What did he say?"

"Well, he—he called me _interesting_."

"Interesting?"

"And he _blushed_."

"… strange," he muses, looking out of the window.

"Utterly strange, I agree." I catch him off guard and yank my foot away from his grip, covering myself up completely. He huffs and I stick my tongue out at him. "I asked him why I was interesting, and then he started getting all fidgety. Then I kind of played about with him… perhaps I shouldn't have done so but, well, it was so boring in that class."

"Have you started on your story yet?"

"Oh! That reminds me!" He leans forward, giving me the perfect chance to beat him with my pillow. "You, Christophé, are a buffoon! I had just come up with a brilliant idea and you almost kill me! I almost forgot it because you your, your… you! And you ruined my favourite _tie_!"

"You have plenty of those—"

"Shut up!" I launch my pillow at him, now standing across the room, and he easily dodges it. "And you really think I'm going to start right now? I want to wait for a little bit, get to _know_ him a little bit more before I come up with a plot."

"What is zere to plot? You write about your falling in love with him, you give it to him and then," he pauses suddenly, giving me a nasty smile. "Your friendship is ruined forever."

"… ruined? Oh, here we go, sound the cannons and call the royal courtiers for Christopher-de-Whimsy is to proclaim all he knows on the topic that is Young Lust. So. Shoot. You think what I'm doing is dumb, don't you?"

"It's creepy is what it is, and I seriously doubt your typical teenage boy, when confronted with a love story written by another male in ze same class as him, would take it positively. Especially if zey had bonded so well over zis project. It would be considered a betrayal, actually."

I take this in, lying down and closing my eyes. My headache is beginning to grow now, having just gotten so worked up. "I'm offended on two different levels. First, that you assume I myself have not thought such a thing. Second, that you stereotype Kyle as one of 'the lads'. In fact – _third_: you believe my writing is ham fisted and will be a metaphorical penis through the hole in the lav wall. Who do you think I am, a truck stop merchant? Anyway, you've had all day to tell me this yet you're only supplying this little tid-bit of information now… why, exactly?"

"Don't know, just been thinking about it and kept on forgetting to bring it up."

"Ugh. Look, tell me the truth Mole, if somebody did that to you would you feel 'betrayed'?"

He pauses, surprised by my question. "I don't know, Pip. But If I put myself in Kyle's shoes zen I'd 'ave to admit zat finding out zat ze project you and I 'ad been taking part in was only a game of dumb romance to you, zen I'd be pretty pissed… hey, are you alright?"

"Headache," I mumble, though it's more than just that. Maybe what I _am_ doing is wrong, that I'm just using all of this for my own devious gain. How is Kyle even going to mark my story if it's my admission to him? I'm jeopardising his grades here, and his mother won't take that too kindly; Kyle's already had problems from her over low grades before and the idea of getting him in trouble again… it actually makes me feel a little sick. "Can you, can you leave please, Christophé? I feel really ill, and want to sleep for a bit." I turn my back to him; pain spiking in my temples and making me feel truly nauseous. I hear nothing for a few seconds, then the muffled sound of my door closing over.

*****

My fatigue got the better of me on Wednesday, relegating me to odd hours spent wrapped in my blanket downstairs, once again being fussed over by my sister. I eventually decided to return to bed when she brought up the idea of us watching one of her chick flicks together, however. I decided to go to school the following day only because she told me she had asked for a doctor to come and check up on me; most doctors scare me, and I was beginning to worry about Kyle, too. So there I was in English, shaking both in anticipation and a lack of equilibrium, when he took the seat next to me and continued shooting random facts about himself in the same cold manner as Tuesday. Not only was there this, but I also had to deal with an unusually distant Mole throughout the day, too. Even when sister offered him a lift home he declined, vouching instead to take the bus.

I hadn't even _seen_ Christophé throughout Friday morning: he never answered his phone when I called him and he wasn't in our spot at lunch when I went outside to smoke. Never do I smoke because I feel the need to do so, it was usually a social thing, but having the two most important people to me right now acting so callous towards me was certainly beginning to stress me out. I don't even remember how many I had, and as I made my way into English, late, I noticed Kyle sniff the air around me as I sat down. I didn't even want to know his reaction - I bet I stunk of those awful things.

"Are you OK?" he asks. He must be going on about what happened to me on Tuesday. Strange for him to ask now.

_Oh yes, I'm fucking __jolly as Tennyson, pre-Hallam, or as Kirk Hammett on a wah-wah pedal. I'm The Big Bopper. A fucking sodomite in an Ancient Greece bath house. Totally _fucking_ Chipper. _"Yes, I'm fine."

"You smell like cigarettes," he accuses.

_Because you're so fucking above and beyond what I deserve that it hurts, and both you and my only outlet have chosen now to fuck me off and destroy me. I wanted to fill my blood with a numbness that stifles the very life itself yet some cheap grass is all I had at hand. I apologise if my feelings, and the repressing of those feelings, offends your tolerance level. _"I haven't been smoking."

"_Sure_, Pip."

_Oh, to hell with it! _"Once you've stopped speaking to me like I've done something wrong then let me know, alright? I'm getting this shit off Mole and I don't need it from you too."

"So it _is_ your fault?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mole. Yesterday he looked like his fucking mother had died or something and today when we were in History together I brought you up and his face went funny. Stopped talking, too. So, what's up with you two?"

So he _is_ in today! Why wasn't he around the back of the gym at lunch? It's practically been his second home since we started here. "I don't know. I don't know why the two guys I've been speaking to this week have suddenly started treating me as if I'm a complete prick. Can I at least get a little hint on why this seems to be the case? Has a swastika suddenly grown on my forehead? It's really—"

"Mole as w—I mean, he's been funny with you?"

"You _both_ have," I say, feeling a need to whack him on his head.

"I, dude, shit… I'm sorry. I'm just having problems. I hadn't even realised—"

"Oh, bother."

"I'm sorry if it's given you some kind of wrong impression, really; actually, I was hoping you'd stop around mine today, seeing as we haven't done our 'free time together' thing for this week that Cartwright wants us to do. It was on Wednesday, you weren't in when she talked about it, before you ask—" I close my mouth, slightly worried that right now Kyle could read minds. "—and I have stuff to do on Saturday and Sunday so we need to do it today if you actually plan on us doing this."

Kyle sure says do a lot.

"Sure, I'd love to come," I say, feeling somewhat relieved. I'm still in some state of confusion regarding Christophé, but we should be able to hammer something out. I mean, what's a little skirmish between friends? Plus, Kyle is actually asking me to come around and I'm _not_ suddenly feeling like hundreds of feathers have poured into my internal organs. That must be something of a positive, right?

And it _is_ a positive, as we have an enjoyable lesson together for once; whatever problems he had surely now gone. We laughed and joked about a number of things, most of them revolving once again around Eric Cartman. At the end of class he even gave me his address and details on how to get to his street. And me, being far too excited to cope with another class, feigned illness _again_ to be allowed home early, giving myself time to have something to eat and then take a shower. Not having done so since Monday meant I carried a truly awful odour on my person, and the last thing I wanted to do was turn up at the Broflovski residence smelling like I hadn't showered in 4 days.

I had just stepped out, shaking wet hair out of my eyes, when I realised I also hadn't masturbated since Monday, but the amount of time I had was too short to simply get down with my bad self right now, and I didn't want to get back _into_ the shower just to waste more hot water. Not to mention my sister was also in the house, and I couldn't do it with somebody else here, so I figured I'd leave it until tonight. Friday night meant her going out anyway, so I'd have the place _all to myself_.

I dried myself off quickly and made my way to leave just as school would be finishing; Kyle gets a lift from his mother who is also picking up Ike, so it only takes him a few minutes to return home. Grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl I tell my sister I'll be home some time in the evening, to which she replies she'll be out (a grin breaks out over me hearing this) and tells me to take my keys, which I already have done. I make sure everything I need is in my bag and bid farewell, jogging out of my doorway right into somebody, who crashes into the snow and I on top of him.

"Ow!" I shriek. Rough hands grip my arms and hoist me up, and the small grin of the Mole is fixed right at me. "Chris?"

"Still coming 'round? My muzzer 'as just left." I get up and brush off the small amount of snow that has clung to my pants. Offering a helping hand, I pull him up. Fuck, I completely forgot about his offer from Tuesday.

"Fuck…"

"Fuck?"

"English, uh, I'm doing work with Kyle this afternoon. And I kind of had something planned tonight. Shit, Mole, sorry—"

"What are you working on?" he asks, sceptically. I shrink back. It's not as if I can tell him that I'm ditching him to uh, to jerk off. "It's not your story, is it?"

"Y-yes! That's it!" I'm relieved his mind never went down _that_ route. "Your mother hasn't died, has she?"

"What? No, of course not!" he replies, surprised. "Where would you get a stupid idea like zat from?"

"Then where have you been since Tuesday?" I ask, poking his chest.

"Oh, well… you saw me on Thursday—"

"I mean, where has the _Mole_ been since Tuesday? You were just some plain ordinary French asshole between then and now. And why weren't you around the back of the gym today?"

"Oh, well…" He shifts from one foot to the other, obviously worried over something. "Don't tell anybody."

"I promise."

"Swear on it. I was… with Mackey."

I burst out laughing at this, and get roughly shoved into my wall for doing so.

"I—hah—I can't believe you!" I yell, still laughing. Is it wrong to point, whilst doubled over, at another's misfortune? The idea of _Mole,_ of all people, spending a lunch with Mr. Mackey is simply too much. Mr. Mackey, it turns out, travels to the schools all over the County now to give advice to 'troubled' teens in need of counselling. And every Wednesday and Friday he's at Park County High. "Hey, I'm just laughing here. You never told me to promise against anything like that!"

"Shut up," he warns. "So you really can't come 'round tonight?"

"What about Saturday night?"

"Ugh, _non_, my muzzer will be 'ome zat night."

"My sister might be out… if so then we can simply come to mine instead…"

"It's a nice offer, Pip, but it's clearly obvious that a certain somebody else is taking up too much of your time…"

The silence between us, stood outside my front door, is pretty damn excruciating. Christophé is most definitely setting some kind of ultimatum, yet in the way he actually voices it it's as if he's not even too concerned.

"Shit. Save me some, alright?" I say, trying to formulate a way to not let him down. He must have been looking forward to tonight. _I_ had been looking forward to tonight, I realise with a grin. "What time shall I be there?"

"Great. Come around whenever you feel like, I'll see you soon," he says, that same very genuine smile, the same from when I crashed into him but a few minutes ago, being sent my way. He turns and runs off, and I follow suit, only in an opposite direction: Kyle's house. I'm not the most athletic person in the world, that's for sure, and having almost died but a few days back doesn't help, but I run, run like I'm in a marathon. I'm even capable of checking my watch whilst in mid-pace and even fish that damn piece of paper out of my back pocket with his address on as well, which is good, as I want to get there as quickly as possible.

But you see, an eager Pip is a Pip who is sure enough destined to be thwarted by his own bad luck. I could try to appear as if this is simply a chore; that this is me being forced to cross South Park to do homework with somebody I'm not too close to, yet Lady Luck sees all. Not only does she see all, she likes to piss on every fucking parade. Still, as giddy as I am right now I still intend on hiding it all. Not only from Lady Luck, but from the person who makes me so giddy in the first place. I first worry about taking a wrong turn in some small street and as a result end up lost, yet South Park is so very small and Kyle is, if anything, trusting when it comes to common sense. He'll never make a mistake like giving me a wrong direction.

As I turn the last corner noted on the paper I find myself in a familiar street, and then realise that not only does Kyle live across here but Eric Cartman, too. I can see the same fence I leant up against along with Damien when he held his third grade party. Huh, right there is where I landed after being blown a few hundred feet into the sky. And right _there_, a few yards further down, is a woman with the largest bun of red hair I've ever seen in my life and I grin. She's just stepping into a large SUV when I spot her, and hope that she's leaving on some other business and not to pick her two children up. She reverses out of the drive before slowly rolling off, and at that moment I realise I should have really stopped her to ask if her son was home. Fuck it.

I make my way up to their door, a true doppelganger of every other front door that's ever seen the light of day in this small town it seems, and knock. And knock again. I'm just considering my leave when it's pulled open by a half-naked black haired boy with a Guitar Hero controller strapped over his bare chest; a trick of light first makes me think it is Stan, yet I then realise this guy is smaller and, well, almost undressed. He eyes me up before yelling out, "Kyle, door," the 'Kyle' being drawn out much longer than needed, and running off. Yes, I'm confused.

There's muffled arguing somewhere inside the house for a few seconds, before the younger boy emerges again, telling me to step inside in the same flat tone as before. As I do so he motions the shoe rack and coat hooks, before running back to where the TV is, bare feet padding loudly across the wooden floor. I stand there, unsure of what to do, when his head returns _again_, floating from behind the wall linking the hall and the living room, with an exasperated look on his face. "Come in, stupid. The lounge," he deadpans, his head disappearing from behind the wall. As I walk through I spot two more youngsters sitting on the couch, the only thing between them being the discarded bits of uniform that only minutes ago must have been on the kid now "rockin' out" with his plastic guitar. Obviously it is Kyle's brother, his name now currently escaping me, who is playing some modern Indie/Pop song I'll never care for.

I don't know _why_ I'm choosing to sit down, but I do so anyway on the armchair closest to me. If I am to appear uncomfortable then I would rather look uncomfortable whilst sitting down. At one point during this song a barrage of notes appears, and Kyle's brother gets booed off to the amusement of his friends.

"Shit, I'll fucking get that next time, I swear—"

"Come on, Ike—" Hah! So, that's the bugger's name. "—you'll never do that song."

"Yeah, it's my turn anyway so give it up,"

Defeated, Ike lifts the controller from over his shoulders and hands it to the boy closest to me before taking his seat. He turns to me and says, "Kyle'll be down in a minute, he's just, uh… doing something—"

"Fucking jacking it," the one standing says, currently picking a song. The other kid laughs and Ike baulks, comically pretending to throw up.

"Sick, that's my _brother_ you dick."

Just as I'm trying to keep a straight face myself I spot a _very_ familiar song flash up on screen.

"Wow, they have _Bohdisattva_ on this thing?" I ask, pleasantly surprised.

"Dude, you don't have the new Rock Band?"

"I, uh—" I waggle my fingers about a bit and mimic strumming. "I play real guitar."

"Oh," they all say in unison, turning back to the screen.

_Oh_? What the hell does that mean?

"Visions, pick that song you haven't done it yet—"

"I hate that fucking song—"

"Ike! What the fuck have I told you about swearing?" Kyle's voice calls down, followed by rapidly pounding feet down the stairs.

"What's mom told me, you mean. And what the hell's mom told _you_ about running down the stairs too fast?"

"Well, mom isn't here, asshole. Hey Pip. Besides, you're too young to swear."

"Hello Kyle," I say as he makes his way across the room. The other kid, sat besides Ike, giggles and mimics me, "'_Ellow Kahyle_." Kyle whacks him across the back of the head and has a double take.

"Ike! Your fucking uniform?" ("Shut up, I can't concentrate here!") "Mom's already bought you more than enough dress shirts this year and if you keep throwing them about instead of folding them then you'll ruin them all again! And your tie, look at these fucking stains. Look, these new socks have _holes_ in them!"

"I _hate_ uniforms. At least in your gay ass school you don't need to wear them, and those holes aren't even that big—"

"I can fit _three_ fingers into them, Ike. I'm not going to, because you fucking smell, but I bet I could. What, do you just run across gravel in them all day?" The other two boys giggle, the player now turning off the console he had just been kicked off of. Ike simply rolls his eyes and slouches in his seat. "Come on Pip, let's go upstairs."

"Right-o," I say just as we're leaving the lounge; the three boys burst into laughter and forced imitations of my accent, from "_Right-o, ol' chap_!" to "_I say_!", which is admittedly rather funny. Kyle however gives me a look that says 'Don't you dare encourage them' and I bite my tongue. "So, what's the plan? Same thing what we do in class, only without the whole room being full of noisy people and a teacher who thinks anything in the world that isn't either pen or paper to be a distraction?"

"Yeah… you like video games? I guess we're just hanging; only we're writing down things about each other at the same time," he says, laughing.

"Oh, don't worry. That sounds good enough for me."

"It's a hell of a lot better than being stuck with Ms. Cartwright, that's for sure, or the three stooges down there. That was my brother, by the way."

"I figured as much. He's really something."

"He's a dipshit, that's what he is. Mom got him that stupid fucking game for Christmas and since then he's started listening to rock music and started being a complete asshole to everybody and stealing my CD's. I mean, we weren't that bad when we were their age, right?"

"Oh, I don't know," I mumble. He gives me a look, one of those soon-to-be-familiar Kyle Broflovski looks, before leading me into his room.

"Desk is over there if you want to set up," he says, pointing over to a desk which has a computer with other things. I glance around his room and let my eyes wander over such things as the large amount of posters, or the earlier mentioned large CD collection, or the large amount of pillows at the top of his single bed. Everything about Kyle seems to be large.

And I'm _really_ glad I never say my thoughts out loud.

The second thing that hits me about Kyle's room is that it's completely pristine, from the polished windowsills and desktop to the recently vacuumed floor and neatly done bed sheets. I press down on the duvet lightly and, to my wondrous surprise, find it to smooth right back out. "Comfortable looking bed," I tell him.

"Uh, yeah… what would you rather play?" he asks, holding up a few game cases. "When we got the PS3 mom said I can keep the old console in my room, as long as it doesn't keep me distracted from other things. But I guess we can let it distract us now, eh?"

Honestly, I'm not sure if it is being in the presence of Kyle Broflovski _in his bedroom_, or playing TimeSplitters 2 for the first time in what seems like an age, but before I know it, after several dozen rounds on multiplayer, a light dinner then another several dozen more rounds, all broken by banter and hitting each other, Kyle's mother is telling me it's almost 11PM and asking if I'm to stay the night.

I mean, sure Mole is expecting me, but here, now, feeling more relaxed than I've ever felt before in my life the idea of going there simply to smoke up seems like one of the most pointless ideas ever.

"Wait, mom, I have Basketball tomorrow, remember? Pip can't stay as he'll have to leave early—"

"Oh Kyle, you told me that you don't have it until noon, and besides the team has been having so many practices lately you can miss one, right?"

"Yes, Kyle, you can miss _one_, can't you?" I suggest, egging him on. I _know_ I shouldn't try and persuade him, but I honestly couldn't care less as long as it got me to stay here, to remain as content as I've ever felt in my entire life.

"Arg, but, but, I might lose my… arg." He looks from me to his mother and back again. "Don't you have to go all the way to your house again though? I mean, you never brought pyjamas or anything."

"He can borrow some of yours, _Bubbie_—" He flushed at being called this and I have to fight a wondrous need to laugh, to express gaiety of some sort. "—would you like to phone your mother and ask if you can stay?"

"I, uh… of course," I answer, the right feel of uncertainty. I'm quite proud of myself, in fact. Kyle gives me one of the most staggered looks I've ever seen in my entire life as I leave the room.

"Mom, his parents…" I hear before I begin descending the stairs. Oh right, of _course_. Mrs. Brof. wouldn't know of my parentage, most likely, and that's what's freaked Kyle out so bad. I think he believes it to be a button of sorts regarding myself. "_Keep-away! Keep-away! Pirrup's not partial to a reminder! Keep-away!_" As I reach the bottom step an even more undressed Ike, this time wearing just some three-quarter length khakis, walks past me nodding his head, his eyes closed and what I am pretty sure is _Angel of Death_ blasting into his ears through headphones. Slightly confused, I grab the phone and punch in my house number to leave a message. If Kyle _was_ to be leaving early then chances were I'd probably arrive home before my sister anyway, so I only leave a half-assed message telling her where I am should she arrive home early.

Outside Kyle's room I find his mother, who asks me, "Did you speak to your sister?" I nod, and she smiles. "That's good, Kyle's just doing something for me in my bedroom, I could never figure out TiVo; I've laid out some pyjamas for you on his bed." I thank her and promptly get changed and ready for bed. I'm surprised that even at 11PM the Broflovski household is this loud: almost every time Kyle and Ike seem to cross each other one insult or another is traded; Sheila has the motherly tendency of randomly shouting questions about household concerns, most of which are answered by Kyle or an older male whom I assume is the father. He wasn't present at dinner, so I also assume he must have worked late and only arrived home some time in the evening.

Just as I'm stretching out across Kyle's bed (which is, as I predicted earlier, the most utterly comfortable thing I've ever had the privilege of lying down on) and drifting off he barges into the room wearing nothing but a worn tee and a pair of shorts and tosses a small bottle of fruit-flavoured water to me.

"So you're really staying over?" he asks, rummaging through his closet.

"I—I left a message with my sister—"

"I'm sorry about my mom, for, y'know, bringing up your—"

"I'm fine with it, really; is it really alright if I stay?"

"What? Sure, yeah. Why, you think before I didn't want you to? I just hate missing practice is all." He emerges holding a sleeping bag. "I hope you don't mind, my bed really is cramped enough with just me in there."

"I guess…" I get up, inspecting the pyjamas that Mrs. Broflovski had left out for me, and find that the sleeves on both the pants and the shirt are too short; a couple inches of bare ankle peek out as I stand up. "Are you sure your mother hasn't given me a pair of your bother's pyjamas by mistake? These are much too short for me."

"Are you calling me small? Well, sorry for the fact I grow slower than most people," he says, laughing. As I unroll the sleeping bag out he begins flinging pillows over his head at me; one of them, heavy enough to really hurt, almost knocks me out as it lands on my head whilst I was bent over. "Shit, sorry!" He bursts into laughter again, though stops when there's a loud knock on the wall besides him, causing us both to flinch. "Mom hates us swearing," he explains.

"Oh."

"Well, g'night Pip. I'm exhausted. Switch that light off when you're ready to go to sleep alright?"

"B-but, I thought we were…" He rolls over and looks at me again. "It's pretty early, don't you think?"

"Pip, I got up at six, had to watch over Ike as mom took Dad to work, _then_ had to sit in the car with that evil bastard for an hour as mom drove him to school them _me_ to school, then there was Gym which _you_ never do, then we played games all day though I had to clean up after dinner and _then_ clean my ma's room after fixing her TiVo up: I've been awake for over 17 hours where as you came in to school around 10AM looking as if you'd just woke up. So… what, 13 or 14 hours for you, Pip? And living with that," he jerked a thumb at the door, to across the hall where Ike presumably slept, "is a major pain in the ass. Believe me, when you do that five times a week along with basketball practice and hanging out with the guys you try and sleep as much as you can."

"Oh…"

"And believe me when I say Ike never sleeps. He _doesn't_. And he's the noisiest kid in the world. Expect to be up pretty early because of him—"

"I get it, Kyle." I get up and switch his lamp off, plunging the room into complete darkness for a moment until my eyes adjust to the lack of light. "You know, I almost died on Tuesday and I've felt like I'm going to collapse ever since, so it's not as if I'm complaining."

"What did the Mole _do_ to you, anyway?"

"I've told you, he almost choked me on accident. He grabbed my tie to stop me running off, and then when I passed out he managed to get it off."

"Where do you think he went last week?"

"L-last week? Oh. Uh, Morocco. I think." I wonder what Christophé is doing right now? Is he smoking that marijuana that he got for us? Is he brooding over my absence? I bet, just to spite me, that he is dipping into his bag. Not that I'm complaining; I _did_ ditch him.

"Morocco…" Kyle sighs. I dip into my own bag and try to get comfortable, yet when I think about that bed so close to me and the fact it feels like you're drifting off on a cloud when you're on it, I can't exactly _get_ comfortable when I'm practically sleeping on the floor. "What's up with that anyway? He's our age yet he goes around the world killing people and stuff. He was doing that crap when he was nine years old even. That kid is something else…"

"I don't know the details about it, he just tells me when he'll be leaving and when he'll return, and where he's going… sometimes he brings back souvenirs."

"What like?"

"Oh, l-local products, y'know. Souvenir-y things."

"Trinkets," he says, laughing. It eventually dies down, and I toss and turn to try and get more comfortable, yet find it impossible.

"Hey, Kyle? What is it that you don't like about him? Why do you and everyone else dislike him? What's he _done_?"

"It's not what he's done; it's just, well, what he does. He's a mercenary for hire, remember? Maybe the idea of hanging out with a killer is alright for you, and I think nobody should be friendless, but I also hate the idea that one day those close to him will get hurt simply because of something _Mole_ did. Do you see what I mean?" I nod, not sure if he can see me from his position and considering the darkness.

"So you're worried about me? Why, Kyle, I didn't know you cared so much."

"W-well of _course_ Pip, Jesus, shut up. You know what I mean." I hear him rush his words, shifting his weight uncomfortably. Though I couldn't see his face I could swear that it would be a similar shade of red it was on Tuesday, when he called me interesting. "But, but that's not all about Mole. Do you remember that war from a few years ago? Between the US & Canada?"

"Yes, I do."

"We actually hired him, so he could like, assist us in breaking out Terrance & Phillip. You know. Covert Ops and whatever. Only, Cartman fucks up, as usual, and it results in him dying."

"Mole _died_?"

"But Ken saved the world, and wished everything returned to what it once was and, well, you know. But… it's just, well… he fucking _died._ In _my_ arms."

"Who, Kenneth?"

"No, you dumbass, _Mole_. Mole died in my fucking arms and since that day I haven't been able to get that moment out of my head, when that last breath escaped his lungs, just, just _heaving_ out like some kind of death rattle. And, and the blood. He got ravaged by dogs. Fucking, fucking huge dogs that tore him apart almost, and the amount of blood on my jacket and pants was pretty damn scary. When I got home afterwards, even though I knew he was alive I just had to burn them, dude. I couldn't sleep properly for a while."

"Mole's practically a zombie, wow—"

"God damn it, Pip, this is serious. Jesus."

"S-sorry…"

"J-just go to sleep," he said, rolling back over. I watched him for a few moments, cursing my own stupidity, before deciding I was really in need of some sleep if what Kyle said is right regarding his brother. Only trying to fall asleep on this floor was like trying to sleep whilst standing up. After five minutes Kyle rolled back over and hissed, "Pip, what's the fucking matter?"

"I can't _sleep_ on this floor. It's too hard."

"Shit, mom, you had to get rid of that damn cot… fuck. Get up here."

"Huh?"

"Get up here, Pip. If you're cold then I'm kicking you back out and you can find somewhere else to sleep."

"Woof! Hope you don't have a dog house!" I exclaimed goofily. He shushed me as I got up, and I almost fell over into his bedside table. After several more seconds of outraged shushing and stifled giggles, I was now trying to worm my way besides Kyle.

_The Fleets Meet._

All joking, blushing and mental incoherency aside, Kyle was right; as soft and inviting as this bed is, it's also pretty small and cramped to sleep in with another boy. Everything suddenly became so intimate the moment I finished adjusting the quilt so it covered the two of us; such as his breath now warming up the back of my neck or the heat radiating from his skin, or the every movement he makes which correlates with my own heightened nervous system, such as what he's doing right now with his arms, now snaking against my lower back and sides in his attempt to get comfortable. The sensation makes a yelp start in my throat and a tingle stir down south.

"You're at least comfortable. Now stop moving and get some sleep."


	5. Chapter 4

**Author notes:** My, it's been a long time since my last upload! Well, after spending my entire summer drawing for my comic and generally doing nothing other than being a huge hipster on _/mu/_ I've finally gotten around to uploading my next chapter. I've been hideously burned out from that damn comic though so I'll warn y'all that I'm probably not going to upload this further for a while. I know, I know. You're disinterested too.

I swear I'll put more Mole in the next chapter. I missed him in this one. Also: more character introductions. Yipee!

**Chapter 4**

OK. So, have you ever seen that kind of scene in a movie where two people sleep together and, comically, one of them is unable to actually drift off? And the poor sod is forced to stare off into the ceiling with an amusing expression, one usually of alert tinged with either fear or shock? Right now you could say that I'm the mentioned part of the double act, able to drift off for moments at a time, but not able to fall into a deep sleep like my neighbour, who can really sleep. And I mean _really_ sleep.

Kyle is quite definitely the most restless person I've ever had the misfortune of sharing sleeping space with. Every few minutes he tosses and turns, or squirms, or talks, or does _something_ that either wakes me up or, should I already be awake, play at my senses more than is comfortable. I'm talking elbows knocking into my chest, or forearms moving across my torso and face, or (and this being the one most worrisome for myself) fingers wrapping around the folds of my pyjamas or probing where fingers shouldn't probe; pretty much fucking _everywhere_ when you take into consideration this sensitive vessel of ticklish hot-spots and stimulated nerves that is My Body In An Aroused State.

And that's right, I'm _aroused_. I've never been this aroused before in my life. I didn't plan this far ahead; every time I head on over to Mole's house I make sure to relieve myself of any built up sexual energy before-hand in caution of this exact scenario. His tendency to do exactly what Kyle subconsciously is doing right now is exactly why I take care of it all in a quick play with my own self before heading on over. That was the plan tonight, actually. Do homework with Kyle, head on home, have a wank and perhaps have something to eat, then head on over to Christophé's to get stoned out of my mind. After 24 hours without masturbating Mole's physical abuse, which gets much more frequent, gets to me. It gets to my crotch, to be exact. Fuck. It's been four days, or about… 96 hours? Over 96 hours, possibly 100. One Hundred hours since I last got to feel the pleasure of—oh, _fuck_, just thinking about how it would feel to actually _do_ it makes my groin ache even harder. Shit, just, just stop thinking, Pip, stop thinking. Stop thinking altogether, man, or else be doomed. Fucking paradoxes, eh? You know, the reason I'm even in this predicament in the first place is because I'm a greedy bastard who jumped at the chance to fucking stay here, when I could have said, "Charmed as I am by your invitation, Mrs. Broflovski, I have plans so I must head on home. Another time, perhaps?" then spend the night in pleasant smoke-filled bliss.

"Ngh," Kyle moans as he shifts from his back to his side, his left leg coming to rest over my hips (this is the third time tonight it has came to do so). He moves again, ever so slightly, and I feel my limbs tremble, a weak parrot of his moan escaping my own throat as the inside of his knee chafes against my cock, and the sensation, it—oh _God_—

I'm about to—

_Fuck this_, I mentally tell myself, easing his leg from me. He doesn't stir as I do so, not even a change to his breathing is noted as I quickly stand up. As ever against me things are, however, he stretches out so he takes the whole bed with a tired, content smile and I curse softly under my breath. I try to tell myself I'm just going for a walk, to clear my head, but I immediately tell myself that this isn't a teenage sitcom and we aren't at a secluded beach house where I can simply stroll along spraying shores to calm myself down. The closest thing I can think of is the street outside, yet I'd more than likely cut my feet up on glass or something. There is the bathroom, however, and that's where I plan on going.

The hallway light is on as I exit Kyle's room; it takes a few seconds to adjust to.

Just as I close the door behind myself I hear a toilet flush and freeze. Somebody else is awake? I'm covered in sweat here, my breathing laboured and my cheeks most likely painted a saucy pink of excitement. For one second I consider simply turning back towards the door, heading into the bedroom, finding the furthest corner and relieving myself there instead, but then an image of myself, face bathed in lunar light and etched in lunacy as I jack it looking at—no, fuck, no I can't do that. Shit. Oh fuck, the door's opening, but—

I hear drums. No, I'm not suddenly _Pip In The Dark_ hearing the call of Moloch and I'm not going crazy; it's the familiar sound of pounding drums hammering through Ike's headphones, and sure enough his seemingly always bare self follows, eyes once again closed and head once again bobbing as he passes me to go into his own room. I catch a snippet of what I think is _Candlemass_ as he walks past, our shoulders almost knocking. For a 10 year old Ike is bloody tall, he's actually around the same height as his brother. Insane.

I assume I'm in the safe. I assume that, right now, I'm the only thing that's actually stirring besides an Ike who is at this moment distracted with his music and most likely not in need of the toilet for the rest of the night. It's not exactly my own bedroom with nobody else in the house but I guess Kyle's bathroom will have to do, in terms of setting. No prying eyes at least.

It's at least large, large enough to fit a snooker table, maybe? Of course you'd have to take out the shower and the bath, and the counter and the sink and the toilet—oh good toilet, I'm ever thankful. Whoever decided that all toilet seats have a second lid on that covers the entire bowl should be forever remembered as great thinkers. I lock the door (another great invention, the small lock) and then lower this one down, slowly so as to not make a noise.

I like room to work: sometimes to make a true 'milking' (oh, awful punnery) of it I use oil; right now I'm simply stuffing my underwear with tissue with the intention of having it absorb everything so I can get back to bed as quickly as possible; the one positive to this is that the whole process is quick and efficient, considering there's no clean up job afterwards and I'm already peaking before I even _start_; the simplest graze as I adjust everything causes the most powerful throb yet, so I simply get down to it and begin to finish myself off.

I drop the mess into the toilet, flush, wash up and then go to bed. Kyle doesn't wake up even as I roll him over forcefully to give myself some room to lie down, and as I start to drift off I realise that, on my very first night in Kyle Broflovski's house, I've defiled myself in his bathroom.

Glorious.

*********

"Tell me a funny word you use. _C'mooo—n_." Ike gripes, kneeling on the seat of his chair right onto my shoulder, mouth full of cold cereal and chewing loudly.

"Well, if somebody's crazy, you tell him he's barking; you know, barking mad."

"_Barking_," he repeats, awed. It's amusing that he finds this word to be something akin to a foreign swear word and not the noise that a dog, or Kyle's mother as she is practically doing so right now as she enters the kitchen, makes.

"Ike, don't annoy our guest! Philip, do you like pancakes?"

"Psh, _mom_, you know he only likes crumpets—_ow_—what the hell —_ooow_!"

"Ike, don't stereotype Philip and don't say that word," Sheila scolds, standing over him. He practically inflates, about to answer back, yet a third clip around the ear makes him shrink back. "And sit properly."

"Thank you, Mrs. Broflovski, and yes, pancakes sound delicious."

"Any time, Philip, dear," she replies, smiling. "I apologise for Kyle, he's usually very lazy on a weekend; shall I go and wake him?

"Oh, no, it's alright. He looked like he needed some rest anyway," I say, sitting back in my own seat and buttering toast. It's very noticeable, Ike's… difference. Whereas Sheila and Kyle are small in stature (the latter I know of in the physical matter concerning last night, I think, mentally grimacing), Ike will surely grow into a towering hulk of a dark-haired Canadian. I wonder what it must feel for Kyle, who is almost fifteen, to have a ten year old brother be as tall as him. Height is obviously not the only difference between the two siblings: Ike's physique is of one that is trapped between unsettling childhood and unsettled adolescence, shadows of puppy fat clinging to his frame yet already showing signs of athleticism; Kyle's physique is sharp, wiry, as if he needs a good meal and a dose of vitamin D. If I needed a growth spurt, then Kyle needed twice as much as what I did. Why he decided to play basketball is truly beyond me.

Just as I'm contemplating this he dawdles into the kitchen, still dressed in what he slept in and one hand submerged in his crushed hair. As he fluffs it out his mother asks him if he wants breakfast, to which he declines.

"Mornin'," he says, dropping into the empty seat besides mine. "I just called ahead to say I was skipping today's practice, but it was cancelled." With this, he turns to me and laughs just as Mrs. Broflovski drops a pile of pancakes in front of me; my mouth doesn't know whether it should salivate from the delicious smell or go dry from the sight of Kyle, still half-asleep, his usually well-kept curls now adorably askew and his mouth showing just how much a kid he still is in a lop-sided grin. All he needs now is either the similar mouth full of cereal like his brother or a bloody one-sie.

"Thank you," I pipe, picking up my knife and fork. I wait for my stomach to settle back into place, after its dizzying spell of flopping around. This food _does_ smell incredible, and now that I think about it I am hungry, but there's something so unsettling about eating in another's person's house. With Christophé it's alright because it's familiar, but here in the Broflovski household having breakfast cooked for me and two other boys now talking about something I'm not paying one hundred percent attention to and a mother asking me if I'd like more syrup—

Pip, stop being awkward and just _eat_, Jesus.

"Thank you, Mrs. Broflovski," I say again, before digging in. The atmosphere of the kitchen settled into a comfortable din of family breakfast; Mrs. Broflovski continued to bustle around us, asking Ike if he wanted anything else, trying to force Kyle into eating something other than the grapes he was picking from the fruit bowl and smiling at me, asking if I wanted more coffee.

"Kyle?" An older man was now entering the kitchen, holding out a cordless phone. This was obviously Kyle's father. The look on his face was grim, as if the speaker on the other end bore news of a not very amusing kind. "You're wanted on the phone, son." Kyle seemed to blanch as he took it, a familiar voice answering his own greeting as he held the receiver to his ear. He got up and left the room, obviously seeking privacy. I'm sure I've heard that voice _somewhere_…

"Never did like that boy," Kyle's dad said suddenly, taking his son's empty seat. This surprised me, hearing an adult (who wasn't our old teacher Mr. Garrison) speak ill of a kid. Just as Ike leant forward to ask who it was Sheila beat him to the punch, turning around.

"Who is it, Gerald?" she demanded, causing her husband to flinch. At that moment I had to admit that she looked quite threatening.

"Eric Cartman," he replied, sipping gingerly at his son's coffee to see just how warm it was. The power of those two words at the Broflovski breakfast table was astounding. Ike seemed to sink into his chair, a shadow of a grin breaking out across his face. Even Gerald seemed to react to his own uttering of the name, grimacing. Or maybe it was just the coffee, which I noticed Kyle had kept completely bitter. Mrs. Broflovski, on the other hand, physically bristled, resentment seeping into her features. I braced for one of her legendary episodes, having witnessed enough of them already back in 3rd and 4th grade, yet she simply snorted and turned back to her frying pan.

"I can't believe him, phoning here. I've told his mother about how he treats not _only_ Kyle, but pretty much every boy in his grade! Philip," she barked, turning once again and pointing at me with a spatula. "I bet he's been mean to you too, hasn't he?"

"M-mean? I- I uh, please, I don't, I-" I stammered, suddenly aware of the three pairs of eyes upon me now, all waiting for my answer regarding Eric Cartman and how much of a pain in the ass he can be to everybody.

"For crying out loud, Sheila, calm down," Gerald said. "I hate to say it but the boys can look after themselves. Just, just _please_ mind your business." Ike was shaking with silent laughter, shifting the box of cereal between him and his mother so as to not draw her attention to himself.

"I _make_ it my business once he terrorized my bubbie, and little Philip!" Oh_ Christ_. At her addressing me like she did I felt heat rise up my face and heard Ike lose control, doubling over in squeaking giggles, embarrassing me further. Even Gerald was amused, his lips drawing into a smirk. Sheila sighed.

"Can I go to the bathroom please, Mrs. Broflovski?" I asked, eager to let this scene sizzle out.

"Sure, dear, and call me Sheila. It's upstairs, second door—"

"I know, Mrs — Sheila, thank you." I got up and scurried out of the room, Ike's gasping tittering now under the direct scrutiny of Sheila now. In the hall I stopped, however, as Kyle was still on the phone. I approached slowly, yet he suddenly threw the phone back into its charging dock, growling and shaking in anger. Suddenly I was reminded of the scene back in the bathroom last Monday, when Cartman had just left and Kyle was, like he is right now, seemingly incredibly upset. Tentatively I asked, "Eric getting to you again?"

"God," Kyle hissed, jumping out of his skin. "Pip, don't scare me like that, Jesus." He suddenly stopped and his expression changed - his frown softened, melting into a look of… fear? Worry? His eyebrows knitted together again, and he bit onto his lower lip. I noticed he wouldn't meet my own stare.

"Oh, God."

"Kyle?"

"Come on," he said suddenly, his expression changing again like it did on Monday, to that of him trying his best not to look as if he's just had Eric Cartman speaking to him not 30 seconds ago. He suddenly grabbed my arm and proceeded to pull me upstairs. "The guys want to hang out, you want to tag along?" he asks. I try to answer, yet find the act of walking and talking too difficult, especially when a rapid onslaught of stairs is thrown in for good measure. I trip and fall just as we reach the last few steps, and reason with myself that at least that this time I'm not wearing a tie. "Oh, sorry Pip."

"I don't know, Kyle," I say, massaging my knee. I hop-follow him into his room, where he begins searching through his wardrobes for clothes. "Can we at least stop by my house first? I'm somewhat, um, wearing what I wore yesterday."

"So? You still look alright in those."

"But-"

"It's not as if you slept in them, right?"

"I don't know, Kyle-"

"Look, Pip," he said suddenly, turning around to face me. "If you don't want to hang out with us, then just say so, dude."

"I _do_, Kyle…but will they… will they-" I gulped. "Will they even want me there? They wouldn't, right? Especially not Eric. Is he going?"

"Yes, he is. Jesus, Pip, you're worried about what they'll _say_? Cartman's just one guy, and he's different outside class. He's still an asshole, but he's only the asshole he is _in_ class because he has nothing better to do. We'll be in an arcade; he'll be way too distracted to care whether you turn up or not. Kenny's cool, as long as you give him quarters, and Stan's-"

"Your best friend," I tell him. "Will he appreciate it if I turn up, clinging to your arm and we're both acting like buddies-"

"Clinging — _what_? — to my _arm_?"

"Y-you _know_ what I mean. It'll look as if," I gulped again, finally looking up at Kyle. "As if you're ditching him as a best friend."

"Pip?"

"Hum?"

"Stop being gay, dude."

"Oh," I say. "OK." With this he turns back around and proceeds to get changed, pulling off his shirt (I move back and sit on his bed at this point). "But I want to go home and get changed."

"Mff?" His words are muffled by his shirt, which is now lifted all the way over his head. He rags it off, and thick maroon locks flop back into place, several springy curls covering his eyes. He shakes his head and blows them to try and see. "Do you have to?" Just as I open my mouth to answer he quickly pulls his shorts down and steps out of them. My stomach caves.

"Yes, Kyle, I don't feel comfortable in something I've worn for this long. I _ran_ here yesterday, you know. Got sweaty. Dirty…" My eyes flitter to where he's stood, crouched down at the lowest shelf in search of jeans wearing just underwear, practically fucking _starkers_, and feel my throat tighten up. My eyes instinctively close over. I gulp again, wondering why gulping has to be such a loud process, and if Kyle can hear me and why there's such a thing as an Adam's apple anyway with it's jutting out right _there_ where people can see it's every fucking bob as you try to widen and moisturise your windpipe, all because of some _dumb reaction_ concerning your nerves. "Besides, wearing something two days in a row just, it isn't proper, is it?"

I suddenly hear him walk towards me and I risk cracking an eyelid open. He's now pulling ringlets of hair out from where they were tangling, focused completely on the mirror and, thankfully, dressed. He looks nice, actually. Long sleeved dark green shirt and black pants.

"I guess," he concedes. With one last comb of fingers through his entire scalp he turns and says, "Come on. Don't want to be late." As we descend the stairs I hear him mutter about his 'stupid fucking hair', and I have to try not to laugh.

"Hey, didn't you say you were staying with the Mole last night?" He closes the door behind us both and as I think over his question we make our way onto the street.

"I, uh—"

"I remember you saying something in class, I think. Yeah, you said you were staying for the weekend?"

"Oh, _now_ I remember…"

"Cereal and junk? Remember?"

"Yes, yes I remember Kyle. Oh Geez, he'll be pissed—"

"A pissed off Christophé? Oh, do I feel sorry for _you_," he joked. We reached the corner of his street and just as I turned off to make my way to my own house I felt him tug at my sleeve.

"Kyle?"

"_Hnng_, Pip, do you _have_ to go home? The arcade is like two minutes that way," he moans, indicating the street going the other way.

"The arcade is only two minutes away for _you_, somebody in a nice thin shirt and pair of jeans, but the arcade is two minutes and the rest of the day away _from home_ for me. Me, all stuffy in this ugly sweater. Have you seen how warm it is? I'm all itchy. Please, Kyle."

He proceeded to pull at my sleeve, dragging me across the road. I laughed and pulled back, my sweater now becoming a makeshift rope in our childish game of Tug-O-War; having played these games with Christophe had however moulded me into a ruthless, sadistic asshole when it comes to such challenges and I slipped easily out of the article of clothing with the intention of letting momentum have its own say in the matter: Kyle stumbling backwards with a yelp, before crashing into a hedge behind him.

"And I am the victor!" I declare, approaching him. He looked something of a mess, with twigs sticking out from his hair, and leaves clinging to his clothes. He was more shocked than anything, mouth open slightly and eyes looking amused. "Now, shall we go to my house? You can clean up there."

"… what just happened?"

"Don't worry Kyle, it was just a crushing, absolute victory on the behalf of yours truly."

"Nuh-uh," he defied, grinning. "We're still going. Rock, Paper, Scissors me for it."

He held out a feeble hand.

"_No_, Kyle, I won. Get up." I grabbed the hand which he had held out and pulled him out of the bush; he pouted and brandished the sweater in his other hand. "You know, screw it. You must be as uncomfortable as I am now, all covered in leaves and such." He immediately began brushing himself down at this. "You can have your 'bottle' if you so must have it, going the arcade now; only keep a hold of my jumper while you're at it. Uh—" The wind suddenly picked up, chilling us both. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. Trust the waning sunlight of South Park to, in the blink of an eye, give out on us both so suddenly. "In fact, give me that sweater. Freezing—"

"Ha, ha, no way Pip. You said I could keep hold of it," he gloated, and with that he pulled it over his head. When he reappeared through the collar of it I realised I must have been gawking, as he fixed me another amused stare. "Chill out, dude. I won't ruin it."

"It's not that…"

"I managed to get the leaves off. Might be a twig in there though," he mumbled absent-mindedly whilst combing through his hair. After a few seconds he pulled a long one from that jew-fro of his and shrugged. "I guess so."

"Get that _off_, Kyle, Jesus! You might have like, insects and whatever crawling all over you and, and—"

"Just wash it," he suggested, now making his way to the arcade.

"W-wait up!" I yelled after him, jogging. If I move my body about then perhaps I'd get warm.

*****

"I hope you're happy," I hissed as we arrived. "I'm freezing."

"Quit whining."

I'm really not one for any sort of cold weather. At all. I'm too used to wrapping up in layers upon layers of thick wool and cotton in order to cope with anything more than a light breeze. I get brain freeze from luke-warm tea. I came out in only a tee-shirt and a jumper yesterday because it was a nice warm mid-afternoon air and I didn't expect to stay out until the following day. I'm too used to layers and to comfy, comfy heat. I'm too frail, too wispy, too fucking _blonde_ for a chill wind.

For the first time in my life I've been eager to head into a place where I'll be in close proximity to Eric Cartman. At least, if what Kyle says is true, he won't be too entirely annoying as the arcade appears as noisy, flashy and lit up as a bored kid's wet dream.

I ushered us both inside, ignoring Kyle's wanting to check out a movie poster of some sort. Inside, the foyer was heated and as of that moment a haven for Philip of the shivering limbs and chattering teeth, of the loose shirt and the frozen skin. Antsy children swarmed just beyond the open glass doors beyond us, all adding to the mess of noise that poured through into the entrance area. Some older boys, several I could recognise as kids in the grade above ours, hung outside against walls, talking and glaring at anybody who dared give them the light of day. To our right stood three looming change machines, all of them plastered with poorly scrawled messages that they were out of order.

"I don't suppose you have any quarters yourself, Kyle?" I ask, fishing through my own pockets. I didn't have a single coin upon me.

"A few. Uh, well—"

"_Well_, that makes two out of three who will dislike me: that is if Kenny really _does_ take quarters."

"Oh, he does alright."

"Fucking 'ay. All I need now is to find a way to annoy Stanley and then I'm three for three," I quipped. Just as I turned towards the main area Kyle held his arm out towards me, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. "Oh, piss off," I snap and, because he was being goofy, I decided to kick him.

"Hey, I'm just trying to get you your perfect game," he said, still leering. "If you can't win 'em over then just piss 'em all off. Three for three either way, right?"

"That seedy pretence of yours is not at all convincing, Kyle."

"Aww, I'm just trying to have fun," he whined, before laughing. "Come on Pip, I was joking about Kenny. Besides, there are more machines in there I think. Let's go inside."

"Do these machines take twenties?"

"Um, sure. I guess. HEY!" he suddenly yelled. I covered the ear closest to him and began scanning the crowd; after a few seconds I spotted the bobbing black scalp of Stan Marsh, hidden behind a group of tween spectators to a fairly popular game. After negotiating his way through he emerged, looking disgruntled. At spotting us however he lit back up and began approaching.

"Hey guys, what took you? Kyle, you fall down a tree?"

"Wait, what? A tree?" he asked, bemused. I peered at his hair and caught sight of a lone twig poking through right at the crown of his head.

"Here, a twig," I said at pulling it out. He went to flinch as I reached over yet stopped, realising I wasn't trying to brain him.

"Careful Pip, you pull the wrong twig out and it might collapse in on itself," came a voice from behind us, and I spun around to see Kenny greeting us. "Yo. Kyle, you fall down a tree or something?"

"I said that—"

"He fell down the faggot tree, didn't you Kyle?" came yet another voice. This time I didn't need to turn around to see who had spoken _this_ time. "And sucked off every branch on the way down."

"Fuck off Cartman," Kyle rebutted automatically, not missing a beat.

"Ha. Faggotry. Nice one dude," Kenny laughed. Stan rubbed at his nose in exasperation and Eric smirked.

"Stan, don't be getting all pissy because I joked about your boyfriend," he teased, leaning right in on the smaller boy. Stan pushed him away with a laugh nearer to me and I instinctively leant against Kyle's arm before I even realised what I'd done. As if he sensed my discomfort he stepped back towards Stan, yet still choosing to beckon at me.

"Come on Pip. Stan. Let's go play something. If I wanted to hear faggot jokes I'd have stayed home and listened to Ike's friends," he said, now dragging us both.

"Oh yeah, are you guys gonna have a threesome in the rally car booth or something? That's why you brought the _Britch_, right? Because you want to suck him off or something—"

"Jesus, Cartman, sing a different tune for once," Stan said, a ghost of a smile now creeping up on his own face. Whether this was at Cartman's labelling of myself or Kenny's reaction to it, having just burst into laughter, I don't know. "You're so jealous, dude."

"Bitch please. Why go for what came out of your mom's vagina if I put it _in_ there in the first place, dipshit?"

"Oh, great. You're my father now. How _mature_."

"What the fuck is he doing here anyway?" Cartman started, now glaring directly at me. "I mean, Jesus, what a fag. Holding Kyle's hand and shit. _Oh, save me, Kyle!_ Scared, Pip? Is this the first time you've been out with other people besides that French prick? I guess this is what turns you on now, Jew boy, having someone depend on _you_ for a change. Am I right, Ken? I figured as much, seeing as you always go crying to Stan about—"

"Let's get _out_ of here," Kyle suddenly called out sharply, an air of finality to his voice and leading us away much more forcibly. "Fucking asshole. God_damn _it I should go back there and kick his ass or something—"

"Whoa, calm down dude," Stan said, now grabbing the redhead's arm as the boy was now starting to lose his temper most royally. If Kyle seemed distressed at the phone this morning then he was positively shaking with rage now. I felt incredibly uncomfortable at this moment, as I wasn't really used to being around other people displaying emotions like Kyle was right now. He seemed torn between a deep shame and a strong urge to go back there and knock Eric's head off; eyebrows crashing into eyes that glimmered with the unspilled tears of a pent up fury. His cheeks were flushed a livid pink of very human humiliation, and I had to admit at that moment that being this close to him and experiencing one of his well-known tempers on such a personal level did something to me.

It terrified me.

"I'll fucking _kill_ him one of these days," he snarled, still with Stan holding him back.

"Just calm down, dude, fuck. People are staring."

Stan led him out of the arcade before looking to me, shrugging and giving me a look that plainly stated: _A little help?_

"Kyle," I started. A better jump into action than anything else I could imagine. "Kyle. Um…"

Shit.

"Hey, Pip," he said suddenly. I stopped trying to think up whatever disastrous help I could provide as he fixed me with a stare that froze my tongue to the roof of my mouth. He suddenly seemed to deflate, the anger dissipating out of him. "I, uh… I'm sorry about Eric…"

"For fucks_sakes_," Stan sighed.

Kyle ignored him and continued looking at me, now sniffing and wiping at his eyes with a sleeve of my jumper. "You still want to get changed? Uh, we shouldn't really stay here now. Stan can tag along, right?"

"Wait, tag along where?" Stan looked from him to me in search of some kind of answer.

"M-my house," I informed him, watching his mouth form the small 'o' of understanding as he processed the answer. "And, and of course. Sure. Beats here any day of the week, heh. But Kyle, please don't apologize for Cartman. It's not as if you can control him."

"Pip, he's always like that, thinking Cartman will act differently one of these days or something. Kyle, you should know better than think he'll _ever_ change, or something—"

"It's not _that_," Kyle interrupted. "I just, I figured because it was the arcade he would just be too distracted to care who turned up. Jesus, Pip, I'm sorry; if I would have known this would happen I wouldn't have asked you to come."

"Kyle, don't beat yourself up over it, dude. It's not as if the arcade was invites _only_—"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean, you're all 'Oh Pip, I shouldn't have invited you', yet—"

"I was talking about the group, stupid." Stan stopped suddenly, surprised.

"Oh… well, alright. I hate to say this, though, Pip, but you're not exactly going to be brought onto the team if you keep up this level of drama," he joked, nudging me. "Hey, are you OK? You look pale."

"Oh, I'm fine," I lied. I started to wonder what I was so scared of back there. Of course Cartman would be considered one of the reasons, yet I couldn't help but consider the idea that being exposed to such strong negative emotions was such a shock to me too. I admit that, living in a house with just my withdrawn sister I'm not too used to such a display of, well…

That's the other thing. Perhaps it was _who_ had displayed those emotions; Kyle has always been someone I've had some sort of fixation with, yet this onslaught of firsts is something I'm really struggling to cope with regarding him. This friendship is only forced because of a recently made class project, after all. For all I know, Kyle might not give two shits about me and is only going through with this because he needs the grades. For his own gains. What I _do_ know is exactly that: Kyle is fucking worried as all hell over his grades. I am pretty sure that is what Cartman was speaking of earlier when he talked of Kyle's supposed dependency on Stan. But I don't believe he's simply doing it for the grades. I don't know exactly. It just doesn't seem like something Kyle would _do_. It's definitely something I'd do, though I don't need to begin musing on mine and Kyle's differences. The first obviously being I _am_ in this friendship entirely for my own gains of actually being with Kyle. Perhaps I'm worried about being friends with somebody who is so strongly unlike me; me, somebody so inexperienced with genuine human emotion, friends with somebody like Kyle Broflovski, a complete basket full of them. I only wanted a peaceful, enjoyable friendship, yet this is turning out to become one of the most strenuous, distressing and ultimately _alien_ weeks of my entire life. Perhaps _that_ is why I was scared.

"So, what was the deal back there?" Stan asks suddenly, the curiosity getting the better of him. I for one thought what had happened back there to be pretty clear, until I realised that Stan held in his hand the very twig I had pulled from the red head's hair back in the arcade. "With the twig and stuff? _Did_ you fall down a tree?"

"Of course I never."

"Well! That, um, was my fault in fact. Ha—"

"I got a sweater out of it, though," Kyle interjected. He seemed to have lightened up somewhat, yet was still hunched as he walked ahead of Stan and I. In fact, as he finished he wrapped his arms around his shoulders and inhaled sharply. "Pretty warm, actually."

"I'm afraid to tell you that I'll have to have it back sooner than later, Kyle," I told him, reaching for my phone. The wind was really relentless now, and I didn't want to spend the next 20 or so minutes in it. I had to give props of some sort to Stan, who wore nothing but a thin shirt yet seemed completely comfortable in this cold. "Just calling my sister to see if she'll give us a lift. No way am I walking home in this weather."

"Jesus, Pip, it's not even cold," Stan said, laughing.

"Of course, but I'm not really all that used to it."

"I guess. Cartman was kind of right, we've never really seen you about until today. Right, Kyle?"

"I guess, but I already told you. It's the project, but we've had fun in class and well, y'know."

"Why, Kyle, I never knew you cared so much—" I was interrupted in my own joke by one of the meanest stares I've ever received directly from Kyle himself, who looked just about ready to kill me if I spoke one more word about _why_ exactly I was tagging along today. I decided not to press the issue, and instead decided to speak to Stan. "I'll admit, I'm not one for cold weather. Right now I should be wrapped up in a sweater and a nice thick coat. I'll probably catch cold, as I'm so susceptible to them."

"Sucks, man."

"Hello? Hi, Cath. We're out in the freezing cold and need a lift home, I'm afraid. Can you come out and pick us up? Great! Ah, you got my message? Smashing. See you in a minute. Oh, at the um, the Rhinoplasty. I'll see you in a minute, yes, _yes_ I'm perfectly fine. I love you too." I rushed these last words and then stuffed my phone into my pocket, hoping I wasn't heard. Stan was grinning at me, however.

"Wow. Wish I could speak to my sister like that. If I told her I loved her she'd probably come out through the earpiece and start choking me or something."

"If she found out Kyle was putting my health at risk she'd do the same," I said, the words coming out of my mouth before I even realised. I glanced at the boy in my sweater, yet he seemed more interested in checking his hair for more leaves and sticks. Thinking he hadn't heard my latest quip I sagged against the shop door and waited. Stan immediately took the spot besides me and followed suit. "If she found me sagging against some horrid facial reconstruction store she'd kill me, too."

"Hey, lay off dude. My mom works here."

"Oh. Sorry. I just meant, well, I'm sagging and she believes Sagging leads to a bad spine." _Though testicles tend to sag more often than not_, I think to myself, _yet they're more than capable of leading to The Straight-up Form._ If Christophé was around I'd have probably said it, to the reaction of a stifled laugh even. I'll have to save such a one-liner for the next time we spend time together.

At that moment a single speck of snow landed squarely on the tip of my nose, provoking some sense of Deja Vu from the beginning of the week in Christophé's garden.

Oh boy, he's not going to just take this snubbing of his generosity without complaint, is he? Hah. Fat chance there, Philip. Chances are, in fact, that he'll curse me like he curses God [a rather admittedly lesser trait of his in recent times, though it is prone to a resurgence on occasion], and turn into either the cold, calloused kid most others know him as, or the vindictive and petty brat I've only experienced once before in our friendship; once too many if you ask me.

"Shit, snow… good call Pip," Stan mumbled. The folds of my sweater grew tauter around Kyle's shoulders as he hunched the material ever tighter around himself to shut out the chilled wind and flecked snowflakes; each one was a frozen arrow head driven by the bowstring wind, a jarring cold piercing our skin as they struck our flushed faces and hands. Within three minutes the three of us were shivering and Stan's chattering request of "Inside?" was greeted immediately and positively.

We crashed into the Rhinoplasty in refuge from the outside, something which was beginning to look like the bordering foams of churned water crashing from a steep cliff. It was the brilliant white powder-y-ness of it all that so impressed me; so much that all vocabulary spilled from my brain, and I immediately glued my self to the large plate window that overlooked the street as Stan's mother voiced her surprise at her son's appearance.

"Why, boys, what are you doing here? I thought you were going the arcade?"

"Yeah, well, we just came in here to escape _that_," Stan immediately countered, one quivering hand pointed outside. I noticed that she never tried to press on the reason why the arcade wasn't a more suitable shelter. Instead she simply sighed and dropped back into the chair behind her desk, the air around her glazing in heat from the (almost) hairdryer-esque heater positioned behind her. The two others were over it in a shot, bathing their frozen hands in its glow as I stood stock still against the still chilled glass.

"May I help you?" Mrs. Marsh asked me after a few seconds; Stan glanced up at where she was directing her interest and settled his look upon me, a dumb grin playing across his face.

"He's with me, mom," he told her, rubbing his wrist for more heat. "Pip, get over here."

"We've kind of changed plans, Ms. Marsh," Kyle piped up, his own leaner hands flexing slowly as if he hadn't used them for weeks.

"Yeah, me an' Kyle are going to Pip's house for a while if that's alright."

"Pip?" she asked, looking at me as if my nickname bore something mildly interesting with it, which it did not.

"Charmed to meet you, Mrs. Marsh," I automatically started, stretching my own stiff hands over the humming provider of heat that was now seemingly buried under a forest of wiggling fingers. "My father's family name being Pirrup, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than _Pip_, so, well, you know…"

"Oh, you're _British_?" She said this in a way that signified I'd won some sort of competition, a perk in her tone of voice and an arching of her eyebrows. Suddenly, however, it all seemed to deflate, as she repeated the last word to herself twice more. "Oh, I—I believe you live with your sister, right? How is she doing? I haven't seen her since she turned up to the PTA meeting last year over… over, oh, _what_ was that again—"

"_Mom_," Stan started, obviously feeling I'd bonded with his mother far enough.

"Oh, well," she suddenly fixed him a stern look. "You be home for six, Stanley. Your grandfather turned 110 today and we're celebrating as a family. It's so nice to see you again, Kyle, tell your mother I said hi."

"My sister's here!" I yelled all too loudly at spotting her waiting for us outside, causing every patient, all two of them, to jump in their seats and glare at us all. Mrs. Marsh waved us goodbye as we left, shouting a reminder to Stan for the sake of it as we made our way back out into the streets. The message was caught in the now howling wind and lost as we rushed towards the car. "Fuck me, this weather's ridiculous!" I cried as I threw the back door open.

"You boys are getting dried off and drinking a hot mug of hot chocolate as soon as you all get in," my sister so rightly says as we all squirm into positions that would leave us as comfortable as possible. Stan got the short straw in claiming the middle seat and though shotgun begged for one of us three to fill its chamber, none of us dared venture back out into what was looking to be a blizzard right now. Fortunately for Stanley's position, that meant something between Kyle and myself; this small thing was quite cramped, and I could feel the black haired boy's elbow nudge into a particularly weak spot in the anatomy of my ribcage and his thigh press against my own. In something of a strong moment for myself I didn't feel anything threaten to stir, so I relaxed into the seat and closed my eyes. Just for a second.

The sound of the snow thudding against the window shield was entirely too lulling.

*****

_Eric Cartman's ill-fated birthday party had come and gone, with it the summer that followed. There was 4__th__ grade. Then 5__th __grade followed, as it is accustomed to do so. A second Dodgeball championship came around, yet with Mr. Garrison as our coach we didn't get beyond the State Championships as he felt the process entirely too bothersome. I actually never got all too riled up this time, if a slipped insult to Craig Tucker's teeth was to be omitted._

"_Hey, watch where you're throwing that ball," he warned as one of my tamer attempts went wide of my mark. "You fucking Brits should never play Dodgeball."_

"_Judging by your teeth I'd assume you were as British as they come, so why are you here?" I retorted; the entire riposte came as more of a reaction than anything, the whole thing coming out in one hurried breath so to my own ears it sounded more like "_" _so I had no idea if he'd caught on to the longest single word intended to provoke others since Wales began naming villages. Yet after a few seconds there were anonymous giggles amongst us, followed by me getting flattened with the ball Craig had just been holding several seconds earlier. He then proceeded to beat me up after practice, as any 12 year old boy who has just had his dental structure deeply and gravely insulted would._

_Upon reflection in the nurse's office, myself nursing a deep swelling over my own right eye, I realised that I wasn't surprised at my outburst. Shocked indeed, yet not surprised; the baiting wasn't entirely gone, only more subdued. Instead of building up enough of a temper to unleash it all in one healthy tantrum I instead _tried_ to let it build up only for something to slip. I guess the words were a result of the schoolboy garbage I had filled my head up with over the last two years after finding the wonders of my father's library. Oh yes, by this time I was developing a very striking way of carrying myself: a more enriched vocabulary; a more detailed way of thinking; the more flamboyant countenance derived from burying my nose in the volumes of public school dramas and taking from them the image of the ever-present _roustabout_ of the story. Oh, how they show up without failure, the daring lad who escapes the bunks to roam the fields and skip games, who was never found without pockets overflowing with illegal sweets and a mind full of brilliant come backs to every degrading comment made by the horrible crones of the establishment. I spent every spare minute alone working on my own such replies and fancied myself such a person roaming the corridors of South Park Elementary striking down all challengers with the most wicked tongue lashings. Unfortunately, however, no such chance ever presented itself and, like a fury, with time it sort of ebbed away until all that was left by 9__th__ grade was the bottled up genius of wit tucked away within the utterly unconfident and depressed little boy who knew too much for his own good and couldn't so much as—_

_Wait. Wait, that's too far. I'm only supposed to go as far as the 6__th__ grade in this small monologue._

_Where was I, again? This was the time which we left Elementary school to move out into the world: several hundred yards across the block to Middle School, fractals and other horrid things. Several days before leaving, however, I decided to set up one last meeting with the one man who I probably would have went a little mad should he have not been there. Well, a little __madder than I am now. I'm forever grateful for his words._

"_M'kay, Philip, I'll always be here in case you need to speak to anybody. Middle School can be a big change, after all."_

"_Well, I appreciate the offer, sir." I enjoyed the seemingly uncomfortable squirm that Mackey made upon my calling him _Sir_. As if it was something he wasn't worthy of, perhaps. Maybe he hadn't been called it until we met by anybody other than those funny little men who direct you to tables at restaurants. "But I can't really think about anything else we can talk about. We've discussed so much about myself I feel that any further visits here would be pointless."_

_Mackey gave out something of a laugh, his thin frame settling into its few minutes of freedom it was allowed before tensing back into the unpleasantly guiding Guidance Councillor that every other child in this building, and probably every other child he will ever speak to, will know._

"_So you've lived everything of life then, Philip? Is that so? M'kay, the next seventy or eighty years will be pretty boring, wouldn't you say?"_

"_I am _not_ saying that, you feeble old reminiscer." I laugh, sitting down. "But your job was to council me through my first years of education and you've done that, haven't you? Well, not absolutely to the highest standard; I can see cracks in the foundation already, but your job is done, is it not?"_

_He studied me, as if I wasn't all there; as if I was but a falsity of what a typical 12 year old child should be. __"I'm just telling you, Philip. If you ever need anybody to speak to I'm right here."_

"_It's wonderful for you to offer. Have you said this to any other boy in my class?" Whoa, Pip old boy, must remember to keep up appearances. "Or girl?" Unfortunately, this was the mixed-school world of the 21__st__ century: it was impossible to imagine those of the other sex were non-existent._

"_I've asked Craig to come on Mondays__ but he just walked out."_

"_Shaken off? Well, can you not see me also vibrating with displeasure, sir? I also am shaking your offer off most wildly. I swear it! Don't you bloody laugh!"_

"_I'll leave Wednesday afternoons open for you."_

"…" _I sulked in my seat, casting the stick-man a look that was stuffed with distaste. "You better have cakes of some sort when I _do_ come."_

"_You see? There's never shame in returning to your roots. I've spoken to you since you were half the age you are now, when your legs couldn't even reach the floor from that chair. I think you've come a long way—"_

"_Of course, the fact that the soles of my shoes can now dirty your carpet from the dizzying heights of a chair with the best of them is something to celebrate of course; one's growth since the day of their birth is something we _should_ celebrate, actually. We must do it annually. I'm sure it'll catch on."_

"_How are things with the other children?"_

"_Oh, _this_ old shtick again? I'm pretty sure Eric Cartman wants my blood. Only I think he'd prefer it thrashing around the capillaries and veins behind my cheeks than on his hands. I swear the kid lives off of other people's humiliations. Especially mine. Stan Marsh, I haven't spoken to him since he and the rest of his friends tried to find a replacement friend for dear Kenneth. Who, as it happens, lost several pints of blood yesterday in a skating accident I hear. Supposedly got messy. He asked if I'd be willing to help him next year with homework like I did this year. I think Kyle still hates me for breaking his nose, probably."_

"_Why?"_

"_If I broke _your _nose would you like me? Anyway, Craig still kind of speaks to me only it's funny. I used to start the conversations in grades 3 and 4 because I saw us both as attendees to some cool club that nobody else went to on what was at the time a daily basis. Then I kind of just stopped starting it, only for him to in turn begin doing so. Now however it's simply a case of "Have you got Mackey today?" "Is he in a good mood?" and so on. I'll be glad to be shot of it all by next year._

"_Then again, because I'm going to continue this he'll be asking how you are and such things, isn't he? Oh hell, it'll be maddening. I'm sorry Mackey but I must now pull out of these little get-togethers following today."_

"_I'll bake your favourite glazed donuts, m'kay?" Mackey offered, knowing for my one weakness: something he was excellent at baking which was not sold on the less delicious side of the Atlantic._

"_You bloody black mailer. I'm going to start up smoking and drinking coffee to destroy my tongue so you can't bait me with those things."_

"_M'kay, smoking's bad for you, you know."_

"_No it's nooot. Anything that powers millions of dollars into two completely conflicting industries, the people behind tobacco companies must be doing something right."_

"_Hmm."_

"_Hm?"_

"_You never brushed your teeth this morning, did you Philip?" he sud_denly asked.

"What the cocking hell does _that_ have to do with anything?" Shit, it's gotten cold all of a sudden. Oh, shit, I just swore right at Mackey._ I look upon his seat only to find it vacant. In fact, the entire room_'s turned to glass and my face feels pressured, as if something was pushed against it.

"_Swearing's bad, m'kay? And _I bet Kyle and the others thought your breath smelled all day. Better go up and brush 'em as soon as y'get home. Well? Chop-chop."

"Yo, Pip, dude?"

"_Nngggh…_"

"Philip? We're home."

I jerk awake to the muted cuff of Stan's palm against my cheek, a fogged reflection of his face greeting me in the car window. Only now I realise that I'm leaning into the car door, my face probably closer to resembling that of the profile of _Joseph Merrick_ than my own features as it's squashed against the glass.

"Remember, you three: heated towels and steaming drinks as soon as we get in. Your clothes are chilled right through."

"Do you have hot chocolate, Ms. Pirrup?" Kyle piped up, eyeing our garage from his own seat.

"My _nose_," I whined.

"Hey, Pip, you got a message before I think. I think it was your cell that went off."

Our garage is well lit and favourably heated, much to our satisfaction as we tumbled from the car. Today's teenage body is not one for the cramped space of a small European car. As I steadied myself and checked my phone, sure enough, one message awaited me from Christophé simply alerting me to 'next week', whatever that meant. I nosed through the details to find that as Stan said, it had been received only minutes earlier. Those two words were all that had been sent.

"Philip, what are you doing?" came my sister's voice from the kitchen beyond the tiny section of the house that joined the garage to the rest, a small pocket of walls and floor where our laundry was handled. I realised that I was entirely alone, Kyle and Stan already having gone on ahead it seemed to get warm.

"Just, just checking something," I answered, not really paying attention to anything. Suddenly I realised that my head was stuffed with the choking cobwebs of sleep, and I needed more than anything a cold face full of water and a hot drink immediately afterwards so I shot upstairs. "I'm going up to get something!" I yelled downstairs, not waiting for any sort of answer in return. Instead I decided to switch on my computer and let it boot up whilst in the bathroom.

I feel that to truly perk myself up I'd need few dozen cups of tea and a bit of time moving about yet the most I allow myself is a few handfuls of cold water across my face. After changing my shirt and yawning, a log into my instant messaging program notified me to a message I received offline and I can't help but groan at its recipient; I could imagine his full face bearing a smug grin as he delivered it, those thick dark blond curls of his bobbing with gleeful giggles as he tried to once again pry into mine and Mole's friendship. My coming online alerted him in turn, and before I had a chance to turn the thing off yet another message flashed on my screen:

**Gregory** says:

Well, well, well… how is my favourite little bottomite on this fine afternoon?

-----

**A/n:** seems to be raping the rushed phrase that Pip says to Craig; it's _Judg-n-by-er-own-teethd-assum-ey-were-British-sthey-comes-whyre-you-ere_. Real tongue-twister, I know.

Also, the whole Kyle being really restless in bed thing at the beginning, I figure I'd clarify: _Tonsil Trouble_. Go back to when Cartman breaks in to his room. WHO SLEEPS LIKE THAT? I figure having blood squirted down your throat would provoke a reaction of _some_ sort, besides making stupid noises.


	6. Chapter 5

**GOD WHAT IS THIS IS THIS ANOTHER UPDATE OH MY GOD.**

**I MEAN LIKE SERIOUSLY GUYS.**

**I AM TOTALLY SLEEP-DEPRIVED RIGHT NOW BUT I TYPED UP PRETTY MUCH ALL OF THIS IN ONE SITTING IT IS SHORTER COMPARED TO USUAL CHAPTERS AND GOD I LOVE YOU STAN BUT YOU ARE JUST TOTALLY NOT THE KIND OF CHARACTER I CAN ACCURATELY WRITE FOR I AM SORRY FOR MAKING YOU BLAND.**

**I SWEAR WE WILL RETURN TO OUR REGULAR SCHEDULE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER, WHICH I PROMISE WILL BE OF NORMAL LENGTH AND WILL ACTUALLY FEATURE MOLE AND MAYBE A LITTLE GREGORY IF I CAN WORM HIM IN HEY HOW ABOUT THAT GUYS.**

**IF YOU'RE WONDERING WHERE THE _PREVIOUS_ CHAPTER WAS I UPLOADED THAT UNDER A M RATING THEN REALISED MASTURBATION =/= MATURE BY STANDARDS I MEAN LOOK AT SOME OF THE CONTENT UNDER LESSER RATINGS YOU PEOPLE SHOULD PAY MORE ATTENTION TO YOUR RATINGS BUT THEN AGAIN THEY AREN'T AVAILABLE FOR THE MASSES I LIKE HOW YOU THINK WRITERS I MAY SUBSCRIBE TO YOUR NEWSLETTER.**

**IT IS 5AM I AM GOING TO BED**

**GOOD NIGHT**

**GOOD NIGHT LADIES**

**GOOD NIGHT**

p.s. i apologise for _nothing_.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Gregory** says:

Naughty naughty. :) I've heard that you're beyond acknowledging the Mole and in turn decided to offer him the cold shoulder last night. He's awfully sore, by the way.

**Gregory** says:

Well, well, well… how is my favourite little bottomite on this fine afternoon?

**'But this is England, where the only crime is to be Found Out' – Phillip** says:

'beyond acknowledging'? I mean really, Greg, you're beyond help

'**But this is England, where the only crime is to be Found Out' – Phillip** says:

and I appreciate the heads up. I mean Christophe's not exactly the confronting type and I'm glad you told me this because we share enough uncomfortable silences as it is. I mean, we all know he isn't one for speaking out and saying what's on his mind or anything

**Gregory** says:

Incredible, Phillip, when all else fails turn to your tried and trusted Sammy Sarcasm! :)

**'But this is England, where the only crime is to be Found Out' – Phillip** says:

oh go fuck yourself

**Gregory** says:

Oh, I say! How dare you!

**'But this is England, where the only crime is to be Found Out' – Phillip** says:

How dare YOU, Greg; this isn't any of your fucking business yet because you're a pathetic prick you have to fucking try and stir shit between me and Mole. I'm blocking you unless you give me a really good reason otherwise

**Gregory** says:

It's 'Mole & I', dear.

**Gregory** says:

Lrn2grammar.

**This recipient has been blocked. Click ****here**** to unblock.**

*****

I'm afraid, dear reader, that I have lied to you. Yes, I have become the Iago of the non-Iamb; the fictitious fibber; the seller of the world's most mouth-watering pork pie. Actually, it's more of a slip of the tongue in that I completely forgot about the nasty piece of work that is Gregory Thorne. You see, he kind of dips in and out of the circle that is Christophé's and mine own whenever he's got nothing better to do than annoy the shit out of us. As a go-between for Christophé and his agency, the pair of them are unfortunately _linked_, and Gregory has always been there to let me know of every little mission they undertake in whatever horridly described city he dresses up, with that ridiculously over-reaching vocabulary of his. From the way he acts, it's as if he thinks that I'm jealous of their partnership or something; sadly for him, _he_ is the third wheel of our group. His paranoia over me being, in his words, "_The group tart_" makes it out as if my entire reason in me being here is to ruin _their_ friendship.

It's so painfully obvious that he is in fact completely smitten with the Frenchie himself. I haven't really had the heart to tell him, though.

I contemplate unblocking him to try and smooth out any problems there may be, but I figured that the poor fool was obviously in nothing short of a trolling mood. Instead, I tried my best to shake free any lingering cobwebs in my brain and move on downstairs, pausing at the large mirror in the hallway to note the traces of bags under my eyes. If _anything_, I'd sleep well tonight following last night's comedy. Looking back, I still felt somewhat uncomfortable and not from the fact I hadn't had any chance to fully clean myself up afterwards. Honestly though, I can't think of any other way I could have tried to rectify the situation.

Well… I could simply have gone home early. _That_ would have been a smart choice. But right now it seems smart choices are the last thing I'm making, what with how my life is going. And that's _dis_regarding the smoking, drug taking and homosexuality. In just a few short days I've completely disregarded friendships and my education just to… just because of some _romantic idea_. Really? Is this all I've degenerated in to, some kind of disgusting romantic? Honestly, Christophé just might have been right with what he was saying. But, that's the thing: the first time I've ever tried to do something like this and I've had one of the most enthralling weeks in my life. Sure, there are plenty of downs and today, since 00:01AM pretty much, has been a huge toil on my nerves, but isn't it things like this that makes a happy Pip? Testing of a human mind and soul amidst the adventure of new charges? Well, it makes me an optimistic Pip to say the least.

The afternoon dragged on, which really shouldn't have been much of a surprise. Kyle had withdrawn slightly in to the same state he had been in from throughout the week, though Stan helped in acting as something of an anti-downer. Stan himself, as nice a person he actually is, was simply working too hard at being a pleasant guest and for over an hour the four of us, my sister included, simply sat around taking part in polite face-value discussion about things like classes and favourite foods and, _ugh_.

"Excuse me, sis," I pipe up suddenly just as Catherine starts on cats. "Are the electronics in the theatre still set up? I brought Stan and Kyle over so we could maybe spend the afternoon in there." Maybe. Well, the idea had only just crossed my mind. It seemed a good plan though, as opposed to letting my muscles atrophy.

"Theatre?"

"I think everything's set up, yeah." Stan, Kyle and I got up, with me about to lead them to where it was, when Cath called out after us: "I think _Twilight_ is still in the DVD player so put it back in its case."

"Dude…"

"Really? Twilight?"

"O-_Obviously_, it is not mine." I muttered, flustered outrageously. "Cath and I merely watch random films together, and she rented that one on Thursday and — come on."

"So, is everything just randomly like, chick flicks and stuff?"

"Oh, _please_."

The afternoon passed uneventfully, with the three of us (mostly the other two) reliving the childhood memories of classic _Terrance & Philip_ shorts – I have a guilty pleasure in them and admittedly bought the box set when I had the chance – and indulging in _A Random Film_, to Stan's amusement, for several hours. Before we knew it, now deciding to get something to eat and clean up, it was almost seven in the evening. Of course, this caused Kyle to freak out wonderfully.

"I'm just _saying_, you know, I haven't phoned or anything and – come _on_ Stan, you are aware that my mother is—"

"Yeah, Captain Obvious; don't shit your pants. Just ask Pip if you can use the phone or something?"

"You're more than welcome to, Kyle…" My voice kind of trailed off as I walked in to the hall, where we could see outside. The windows were packed with snow so high that only the ceiling above me was tinted in the illuminating glow of the street light outside. I knocked the glass pane to see how much of it had built up. Only a few inches of the stuff peeled, flimsily, from the glass. "Everybody, I think we're snowed in."

"Huh? Holy _cow—_"

"Didn't it stop from earlier?"

"Come on," I told them, making a beeline for the stairs hoping to perhaps get a better look from a second story window. They both deliberated for a few short seconds, before following my lead. The three of us crowded around the window in my bedroom and collectively reacted with some measure of relief.

"It doesn't look that bad from here, guys; only about three or four feet I'd say." Stan mused, gauging us for a response.

"_But_," Kyle started, "it looked much higher than that against the window. I bet it's pretty packed and would be hell to try and walk through—"

"You're just against going outside because you've got nothing to wear and you hate the cold," Stan countered, provoking a huff from the red-head. We proceeded to go back downstairs, intending to let Stan and Kyle both phone their folks yet when I checked the thing; the answering machine beside it flashed a number of messages, which surprised us all. "I think… yeah, where exactly is your sister, dude?"

Now that I thought about it, I hadn't thought about that. I pressed the button to play back the messages.

"Philip? I'm at a friend's house and should be home around six. Could you prepare dinner? Be sure to let your friends call home. I'll see you soon."; "Philip, how is it outside? Have your friends went home? Call me as soon as you can, please."; "Philip, I'm coming home now. Be sure to keep the garage shutters on so I can open them as quick as I can. I don't know how long these roads will be operational. _Call me_."; "I'm sorry, Philip; I tried to drive home but the roads, they're impossible. This _bloody weather_, Jesus. I might have to stay here for a while; I don't know how long, but keep checking the news for any changes, OK? I'll keep phoning; call me back as soon as—" I killed the playback, knowing the next few messages would simply be the exact same thing.

"So…"

"Just make yourselves comfortable whilst I call her," I advised. They did, and as I was dialling I heard the television besides me switch on.

'—_Park Counties are, as expected, hit hard in yet another blizzard; one that easily dwarfs March and October's storms. Some experts are predicting the possibility of snow levels reaching that of the December 2006 blizzard, which saw drifts as large as five feet throughout regions. Of course, these experts are basing this upon nothing more than five minutes of research—_"

"Could you guys lower the volume down on that? It's ringing."

"We _can't_," Kyle said, shaking the remote. "What is this, a television remote or a battleship pilot aid?" He pushed a random button, causing the lights in the kitchen to burst in to life.

"It's for the whole house, give it here," I groaned. "Oh, Cath! Hold on. There. Was just lowering the televis—" I held the receiver away from my ear as noise flooded through it. "C-Catherine? I'm alright, I promise. We just stayed in the den a little too long and lost track of time. Yes, Stan and Kyle are still here." The two of them stared dumbly at me as I listened to my sister bleat on about how worried she had been. I calmed her down, saying that we hadn't been out and we were warm and there was enough food to last us until next Winter, never mind the night. "We're perfectly fine! I, uh, yeah, I promise we won't leave the house—"

"Whoa, Pip, dude," Stan started, only Kyle cut across him and at that moment they began telling me that staying here overnight was something they weren't too sure about. I tried to juggle two separate conversations at once for the best part of a minute, before shoving the phone at them and excluding myself as what was really me being the middle-man of this little problem. Sitting across from the pair, I had to admit that it was fun watching them being bossed in to submission, slowly, as they first tried to argue that they could handle extreme cold and their clothes were well layered, only to have their irrationality broken down. After a brief exchange, they seemed to resign themselves to spending the night here. Stan pushed himself from the couch and handed the phone back to me, shrugging. "She wants to talk to you again."

"So you're staying?" I asked, taking it. He nodded and sat down on the arm of the chair I'd settled in to. I ignored the small voice in my head that worried over the upholstery, and instead answered Catherine's waiting queries. "Hello?"

"The front door should be locked, but I want you to check just in case. And make sure your friends are kept warm and comfortable. The guest bedroom should be set up, so use that."

"I'm wondering if they'd be comfortable sharing a single bed," I mused aloud, anticipating some sort of amusing response from them both. To my surprise, neither of them seemed to be that bothered by it.

"No Philip, _you_ can sleep there: I changed your sheets while you were out; they can sleep in your bed for the night. If that isn't a problem." She added this small bit on at the end, I bet, with a dumb smile on her face. Of _course_ it would be a problem, because I don't like having other people in my room without me being there to keep an eye on them. I've had one of her friends get nosey during one of my nights over at Christophé's house, and have had Christophé himself indulge himself upon my online history. Fortunately, I delete cookies on a regular basis, but he still had enough new material to torment me with for several days.

"Of course, Catherine. No problem. _Byeee_." I hung up before giving her the chance to reply, and turned to berate Stan for sitting on the upholstery only to find him now stood in front of me with a hand held out. "Oh, yeah. Here."

"Pip?" Kyle called out, also standing up.

"Yeah, you can use it too—"

"No, I mean food. I'm starved," he admitted. Stan waved an absent hand letting us know that he didn't mind us leaving the room, and Kyle and I began poking around shelves and cupboards as Stan's frantic attempts at calming his mother down filled the lounge. "So, uh… Pip…"

"Hm?"

"I hope you're not like, oh man," Kyle fretted quietly, obviously not meaning to be overheard, "it's not that we're trying to be disrespectful or anything like that, but, well. I like my weekend sleep-ins."

Pretty blunt. I'm not surprised, though, considering he's spending a night in the house he's only really just started becoming friends with. "Dude," I started, before pausing. _Dude_? Oh hell, being around these guys, they're starting to rub off on me. "Kyle, I do too. But is there really any other choice? If you want, you can take the guest room and let me sleep with—uh, you know. I'll take the fall for you and, yeah, bad wording. You can stop laughing now."

"I'm sorry." He snorted embarrassingly in an attempt to hold back his laughter, and socked my shoulder as I giggled in response. "I won't '_let you sleep with Stan_', nuh-huh." I playfully hit him back, before realizing what the hell I was doing: flirting. I felt a blush begin to tinge my face, and busied myself with busily rummaging through a random drawer only to find nothing but cutlery. An elbow prods my side and I glance at to my right, only to find Kyle in turn looking away from _me_, holding a large bag of chips.

"What about this?"

"… what about it? You can pretty much have anything you want. If you want something that needs cooking though, you can do it yourself."

"Oh. OK. Look, I'm sorry. Stan and I really don't mind at all."

"You're speaking for him now?"

"Blow it out your ass, Pip," he countered, grinning. "We're not ungrateful people."

"We're not?" Stan asked as he entered, handing the phone to Kyle. "And why's that?"

"It's not unreasonable for us to want a lie in on a Sunday," he mumbled, whilst dialling.

"Oh, I get you. Yeah, Pip; you could sleep on a cloud for all I know, yet I'd still prefer my own bed. Just saying." He smiled at me as he said this, opening the crisps and taking a handful from the bag. "Pretty cool that you live with your sister, though. How old is she?"

"You can't hit on her."

"Shut up, Kyle."

"She's twenty seven… why?"

"Dude, I'm just curious." He offered Kyle a crisp, though the red head was now busy talking to his mother. Stan huffed, and called out loudly, "Would you prefer vodka or beer?" I fixed him with a bemused stare.

Kyle himself flinched and covered the mouthpiece with a tense hand. "Fuck _off_, Stan," he hissed, before turning his attention back to the receiver. "No, mom, there isn't any alcohol here. It's just Stan being a freaking idiot, like usual."

"Tell her I said hi," he chirped, obviously amused. He looked pretty cute at that moment; a playful recklessness radiating from him that calmed me down. It balanced Kyle's coyness nicely, and I started to feel glad that he was here with us.

"She said she's calling your mother," was the response, making him frown. "Hey, I'm just kidding."

"Very funny," he grumbled, sitting down at the dinner table. Kyle hung up after several minutes of assurances and insistences that I was a good host. I'd spoke a few words myself to her, too.

For the next hour we hung out in the kitchen shooting the shit; or, at least, I watched as Stan and Kyle shot the shit, occasionally getting a word in edgeways. Eventually, our stomachs demanded more than just snack food, so we tried our hand at cooking an actual hot meal for ourselves. Stan seemed to know what he was doing, ordering us both to heat oil in a shallow frying pan and to boil water as he decided on rice and several slim chicken cutlets that had been too tightly wrapped by myself from the time I had put them away. Neither of us had any disputes at the menu Stan had chosen, and he continued bossing us as he struggled with the packaging.

"Kyle, check the fridge for salad and junk while I prepare this, that water should take a few minutes. Pip, you have any black pepper?"

"I believe so," I replied, checking. "My, Stan, I had no idea you were skilled in a kitchen."

"Oh, heh, I get bored when I cook so I experiment with stuff. Mom's not usually home until late and Dad would rather order pizza instead of cook. If I ate stuff like that non-stop, well, it's not really the right kind of diet if you're gonna try and make the track team. Y'know?"

"Yeah."

"Watch that oil, by the way. Stupid packaging," he added, finally getting it free.

Kyle, like myself, wasn't too good at cooking anything like this. Stan groaned at us on three separate accounts; first, when Kyle complained that the water was boiling after adding the rice, second when he almost added sugar to it instead of salt, and finally when I let the chicken stick to the pan after forgetting about it for too long. After thirty minutes, however, it was finally finished and we sat down to eat.

"I can't believe this weather," I started, sticking a fork into the rice on my plate. A thick roll of steam rose, filling my nostrils with the smell of lemon. Stan had cut one in half as we were preparing plates and squeezed both of them over the rice into the water for flavour, much to my disguised appal. I wasn't too eager for such flavourings in my food. Unsure, I shovelled a forkful into my mouth and grimaced at the taste. I chased it down with water, as Stan laughed.

"Try it with the chicken," he advised. Kyle was way ahead of me in that department, cutting his two cutlets into small chunks and coating them with small grains of rice. He glanced up at the window at my words. Almost three quarters of it had been immersed in the stuck snow, though the top section remained clean from any more falling flakes. Apparently, the blizzard had died down.

I began following the other two, mixing the portions until I could get small amounts of each on my fork. It tasted better; the strong, peppery chicken was soft (despite one side of it looking much darker than the other because of my irresponsibility) and full of flavour, which complimented the sour rice.

"It's been like this before," Kyle said thickly, chewing hard. He swallowed, before continuing. "A bunch of times, actually. Remember a few years ago, Stan, when we were at Hells Pass?"

"Oh, God," Stan replied, paling.

"Hm?"

"When we were in third or fourth grade, we were snowed in along with Chef," Kyle started, a ghost of a smirk playing across his face. "The generator went out, and they were short staffed so we were asked to help out."

"What, like getting supplies and stuff like that?"

"No, man, like helping in operations and stuff—"

"_Kyle_," Stan interrupted. His face was white and his features tense.

"What's the matter?" I asked, concern creeping into my voice.

"He's afraid of hospitals," Kyle said nonchalantly, returning to his meal.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about it when we were eating," he warned, eyes closed. I involuntarily shuddered at the thought of doing something like that, and the fact they had apparently done so back when… the third grade? They must have only been eight, maybe nine…?

I wonder… why had Kyle not told me about that titbit of information during our sessions together in English? He seemed eager enough to do so now.

"I'm just saying, dude. The weather was worse then. We actually have working electricity here.

"Yeah, well," Stan swallowed, pointing his fork across the table. "Just shut up. Don't jinx it."

"Oh, _please_," came the scoffing reply.

It seemed to continue for hours, their playful mocking of one another. As if it was how they normally spoke. Though I would regularly join in on discussions – for topics to talk of never ceased with their interests in each other's merest whims, along with my own "interesting place", as Stan put it – I felt a little like the audience to a heated debate; admittedly, one that traded goading words and loving physical knocks. It made me feel strange, like I was lonely but at the same time reticent. I wanted to join in, but at the same time had trepidation of failing to match up against their personalities. I found my mind wandering to what Christophé was currently doing, and if he had murdered Gregory, or if they had indulged in the drugs that he had brought home.

_Or_, I thought, licking dry lips, _if they were indulging upon one another_.

Midnight passed, and I showed them the way to my room at the end of the hall. Kyle wished to stay awake longer, expressing an interest in one final mug of hot chocolate; when Stan's head bobbed onto his chest in the living room when Kyle was preparing it, however, it was decided that it was too late. Kyle, defeated, helped me wake him up and we all decided to retire for the night, with Stan groggily tried to brush off his tiredness with claims that heavy Football practice had worn him down lately.

Having shown them their room, and the way to the bathroom and where I would sleep (at the other end of the hall, facing a rather ugly painting of a disgruntled-looking baby), I finally allowed my mind to fully digest the events of the day. Still fully dressed I lay in the weak moonlight, my thoughts a flurry. The short nap in the car seemed to have been enough to keep my brain working, and a looping sequence of images played across the black canvas of my eyelids. An affronted Kyle; a triumphant Cartman; Ms. Marsh, looking pleasantly surprised…

An almost tearful Kyle, trying his best to not attract any attention to himself, as Cartman continued to antagonise and provoke him.

"_I guess this is what turns you on now, Jew boy, having someone depend on you for a change._"

My curiosity, along with my pity, spiked.

"_I figured as much, seeing as you always go crying to Stan—_"

I finally fell asleep, heavy emotions pressing on my train of thought.

*****

I was awoken by the muffled yet pronounced slam of a door out in the hallway. For several seconds I lay still in the erratic folds of the blanket I had fallen asleep upon, slightly tangled. My body radiated heat, the thick duvet pressed against me and the tightness of my shirt and jeans, which choked a stiff, throbbing erection. No memory of what I was dreaming, I slowly sat up and listened intently for any sound. There was the faint sound of floorboards creaking, as if somebody was lightly testing the floor for the most silent passage. The slimmest whisper of cold fear, paranoid-driven, took a hold of my stomach. Slowly I stood, and slower still I crossed the small space between the foot of my bed and the guest bedroom door. The creaking had stopped.

I peeked through the small gap between the door and its frame onto the dark hallway, to see Stan slumped against the banister of the stair which directly faced the bathroom.

"_Psst_," I hissed. His head rose to greet the noise, and through the lack of light I could see him smile.

"Heeey~" he called out, his voice thick with sleep. Obviously he had just woke up.

"What are you doing out here?" I mumbled, approaching him. He patted a space next to him for me to take a seat. As it was against air, and the ground declining sharply into a dozen steps below, however, I stepped over his spread out legs and took the spot of floor on his other side. With a small note of pride, I realised the pyjamas I had laid out for him fit perfectly. I wasn't as small as I usually assumed, it seemed.

Then again, I was usually comparing myself to Christophé, who was arguably the largest kid in our grade.

"Jus' accompanying Kyle to the bathroom," he answered, rubbing his eyes. He drew a bare foot towards himself and began scratching at the sole, absent-mindedly. The sound and image made me quiver. "Too chickenshit t-t-t—" He stammered a yawn before adjusting his body, so he was now sat cross-legged. "To go the bathroom on his own," he finished.

"Hey, I have a question," I started, only for a second loud yawn to interrupt me. Stan smiled and gave me a look that passed for inquisitive, considering his tiredness, before grunting in a way that told me to continue. "It's about this afternoon."

It took a few seconds for his heavy-lidded eyes to give me any sign that he had digested what my question was going to be about, before he nodded.

"What Cartman said… what he said to Kyle—"

"That's… I don't think," he started, pausing to choose his words. I noted a degree of edginess in his voice. "I'm a little tied-up when it comes to answering that, dude, sorry. It's for Kyle to confess. Private. Y'know?"

"Oh." I shifted my own body to find some comfort in sitting against two hard surfaces whilst coping with a further deepening arousal. It didn't help that I was sitting so close to somebody as brashly attractive, even half-asleep, as Stan that I could feel the comfortable heat radiating from his body. _Neither_ did the words '_tied-up_', '_confess_' and '_private'_, considering the topic at hand being Kyle of all things.

"S-sorry. Just curious, I guess."

"God, he's an asshole," Stan suddenly spat. I assumed he was talking about Eric, and he confirmed my suspicions. "Lemme ask _you_ somethin', Pip."

I gulped as he spun around to face me.

"You've been working with Kyle for the past week, right?" I nodded. "Have you noticed any kind of change in him, lately?"

This question threw me off-guard slightly, as I had been expecting something else relating closer to how Stan saw our relationship, or something along those lines. But then, _why would he ask something like that to begin with_, I reasoned with myself. Dare I have assumed that I was to need to approach this interrogation with Rose Coloured Glasses? Not everybody looked at the world through them, Pip old boy.

Oh boy.

"I-I haven't really had the chance to notice. We've never really had the chance to hang out much before the start of the project, have we?" _Not in the slightest_, I added mentally.

Stan mulled the question over in his mind for a few seconds, before shrugging.

"I guess. Just wondering."

"Why?" I asked, before I could stop myself.

Stan observed me in the darkness, his face barely a foot from mine, before calling out. "Kyle? You done in there?"

"Shut up," The reply was curt, and annoyed. "You know I can't go when somebody's talking to me. I'm having enough trouble as it is, usually go at home…" His voice tailed off into mumbling, and Stan shrugged for a second time.

"Well, we've got a couple more minutes. I'm just worried because… well…" He lowered his voice, so as to not allow Kyle the chance to overhear him. "It was my birthday a few weeks ago, and my dad took me, Kyle, Kenny and Cartman out camping over the weekend. You know. Getting to grips with nature and all that crap. Anyway, Kenny basically forced us all into a stupid little stunt on midnight, the minute I turned fifteen. '_You don't turn fifteen every year_', he said. As if this would… _anyway_," he forcefully stopped himself from rambling, rubbing at his eyes. "It was skinny dipping – _yes_, Cartman did it too – though it was pretty much pitch-black so we couldn't see anything if we tried hard enough. There was a small pool a few hundred yards from our tent. We did it there. It seems stupid now that I look back on it, especially because Kenny died of hypothermia because he stayed in too long the water was that cold, but we were all pretty buzzed seeing as my dad had brought a few beers for us to drink. That's why he set it up, because he thought it was an initiation for a teenager to get drunk on his birthday I guess."

I willed myself from telling him to get on with it, eager to return to my room and change out of these infernal jeans. Stan apparently hadn't noticed the fact I was still fully dressed so late in the night.

"Anyway," he murmured, "we all got in, and Cartman noticed… well…"

He gulped himself, obviously nervous, and against all common sense I probed, "Well?"

"Got a hard-on," he whispered. "Kyle did, I mean. Cartman noticed. Freaked out and climbed out of the water. Kenny and I didn't mind, but Kyle's been kind of freaked out about it himself ever since. Even telling me that he's been really confused lately, about… stuff… not that it makes him gay," he rushed, taking my silence as judgement.

"O-of course not!"

"I've tried to tell him: it's completely normal to just… _get_ one, if you know what I mean. In the middle of class; during the game; during sleepovers, even. Hell, I'll admit it." He looked at me, all traces of tiredness gone and a challenging glare in his eyes as if I might find any sort of problem with what he's telling me. On the contrary, I just so happened to be enforcing his argument without him even knowing. "I've tried to tell him it's cool, but Cartman… _Cartman_."

"Cartman?"

"Calling him a faggot whenever he gets the chance…. gay pamphlets in his letter box… handkerchiefs in his back pockets… oh, flagging," he clarified, catching my look of confusion.

"No, I know what flagging is. I was just… Cartman knows, too? I… I don't know whether I should be surprised or not."

"Yeah, pretty obscure for him, I think. We had to look it up. Pissed Kyle off something bad, actually—"

"What colour was it?"

"Oh, uh, yellow I think."

I snorted with suppressed laughter at this. As much as I hated the fatass, it was quintessential Cartman. Stan had to hide a smirk himself, before resuming.

"He also stuck uh… pink and yellow triangles on his desk and bag and locker. You don't remember any of that?" He asked, anger now glossing over the earlier amusement. A hint of abhorrence rose within myself at the news of this. That was just too much.

"No, I don't," I admitted. I hadn't really noticed, in fact. The only classes the three of us shared, Kyle, Eric and I was P.E. and I made it a regular occurrence to wheedle my way out of taking part, which in turn meant I also wheedled my way out of going into the changing rooms.

Stan opened his mouth, only for the distinct sound of a toilet flushing to come through the bathroom door. A few seconds later it opened to cast light over us both as we sat facing each other. I wondered how much we resembled old gossiping ladies to Kyle at that moment, hunched over and obviously disrupted from our conversation as we were.

"You need to go?" he asked, stretching. The other pyjamas I had left out, my very own white silk ones that I was beginning to miss, hung gloriously from him. Coupled with the paleness of his skin and the light directly above him, one could not be too audacious to confuse him with something of the heavens. He certainly helped this image by stretching again, his slender arms above his head now clearly showing off that perfectly lean torso. The sheer _whiteness_, the sheer_ limberness_ of him was more than enough to provoke the strongest pulse of yearning yet in my groin, and in spite of the scene my knees could not help to grind against one another for several long, agonising seconds.

Stan said no, and, getting up, bade me good night. Kyle did the same and offered a hand to his best friend, which was ignored. I watched them saunter down the corridor into the bedroom together, bickering.

If I could recall any moment where I felt more instantly, impossibly incapable of doing _anything_, it was for the half minute after I rose to one knee after relieving the pressure from my groin. Just like at Kyle's house, that helplessly delicious rush of sensation passed through me, and it felt that if I moved, even slightly, I would orgasm right then and there. It eventually passed, only to be replaced by the same hollow yearning that had momentarily struck me upon seeing Kyle not two minutes earlier. Never before had I needed release like I did now, and never before had I had to stifle myself like I did in that bathroom as the force of my second, much more intense, climax in twenty-four hours hit me. Ripples of almost unbearable pleasure rolled across my senses, and continued to do so even as I returned to bed. The ghosts of those sensations continued to throb as I changed into loose pyjamas, and I couldn't help but hiss in surprise as a ragged tag dragged across the sensitive nape of my neck, which was a bare nerve.

I couldn't wait to be shot of these two, at that moment.

* * *

Flagging - go look it up. Google 'handkerchief code'. Look up what the yellow flag means. Die laughing.

I swear the quality of chapters will pick up in the future. Severe writers block + projects does not a creative Chipper make!


End file.
